Steel Savior
by Knight of Infinity
Summary: When Shirou makes a Contract with Alaya in exchange for a life, he is poised to walk down the same path his counterpart did long ago. But instead of becoming a Counter Guardian, he is thrust headfirst into a dying world where Magecraft never existed and the Three Factions maintain a tenuous peace that seems all too likely to break.
1. The Man From Nowhere

**AN: So this is an almost experimental fic where I'll be testing a newer, more abstract writing style. Also, it'll deal with much darker themes what is expressed in Embers, and so therefore will take a LOT longer to write.**

**However, I'm curious as to why this title has never been used before. It seems so obvious now, in retrospect!**

**Tell me what you guys think. :)**

**EDIT 4-14-2015: AU. CHARACTERS MAY BE OOC. Fixed minor errors in canon.**

**WARNING: Strong language and adult situations (e.g. excessive blood and gore and non-graphic/implied sexual intercourse) is/will be prevalent throughout this story. Possible triggers, such as to sexual assault, will also be present. Read at your own risk. ****Will diverge from canon from both universes on multiple points. AU, multiple characters OOC.**

**DISCLAIMER: ****The Fate/Stay Night Franchise belongs exclusively to Type-Moon, while the Highschool DxD Franchise belongs exclusively to Ichiei Ishibumi and Miyama-Zero. I do not own any elements from either franchise that have been incorporated in my fanfiction.**

* * *

_"A man chooses. A slave obeys."_

_-Andrew Ryan, Bioshock_

**STEEL SAVIOR**

Prologue: The Choice

He knelt on a hill of swords, the warmth of a setting sun slowly fading away as it slipped below the horizon.

Once more, glorious victory tainted with bitter defeat.

A young girl with brilliant white hair lay tightly grasped in his arms, pale, almost snow-white eyelids covering crimson orbs that once burned brilliantly with the fire of life.

She looked peaceful in death, he supposed, despite the sickly crater that literally indented the entirety of the left side of her body.

It was an oddly tranquil scene, shielding her small body protectively from the elements, with only the whistling of the wind through the maze of blades below making a sound.

Yet they were not alone on that hill.

_He _was not alone, with the child wrapped in his arms. Surrounding him were scores of the dead and dying corpses of men and women alike, all members of an association that had ruthlessly hunted both him and the girl in his arms for reasons little better than in the name of science.

His voice scratched past his dry and unused throat, grating painfully against his vocal chords.

It was almost emotionless, befitting a veteran of the battlefield that had withstood the trials of war time and time again. Yet, faintly, one could hear the desperate, heartbreaking plea of a boy who merely wished to save his family that lurked beneath the veneer of catharsis.

"Do it."

The words were not dictated to himself, nor to the crumpled form of a young girl in his arms, nor even towards the few corpses that still twitched half-heartedly, each pierced by an innumerable number of blades. A simple wave of his hands silenced them, swords that floated high in the sky shooting down and connecting with their targets with sickening crunches, pained cries extinguished instantly.

No.

Those words were directed to the monstrous entity that dared, that _dared_ take _her_ form, after all those years. A mockery of what he could never have. A reminder of feelings that he had so effectively buried within him years before.

Golden hair fluttered around the imitator's face, and gorgeous, yet empty emerald eyes peered up towards him inquisitively.

"It will be a difficult task," she - no, _it _\- says, the impostor's voice floating up towards him as he continued to kneel on the hill of swords. "Are you certain of this?"

Melodious. Beautiful. Harmonious. It sounded so much like _her._

He clenched his teeth, letting the pain and bitter copper tang of blood return him to his normal analytical state of mind.

"Do it."

The impostor tilted her head, seemingly bemused at his bull-headed stubbornness. Its shook it head once, almost in amusement, before continuing.

"Although I admire your tenacity, hero, you must first understand the difficulty of the situation." It walked towards him, and he stiffened naturally in response. Gracefully, ignoring his hostile gesture, the impostor seated itself on a small section of the hill where the blades of the swords parted, leaving a small niche. "It is a much more arduous task than what you might perceive. Both mine and Gaia's presence is oppressed there. Exploited by three so-called 'Master' Factions. Therefore, you will not be able to receive much aid from me. Perhaps ten, maybe twenty thousand units of Prana at most, a paltry amount when compared to the limitless supply my Counter Guardians can tap from. Not to mention you will be completely alone in your task; no Counter Force, nor my Beasts, will be able to help. You will be utterly alone."

That was not a problem. He had always worked alone. His own foolish actions and own foolish dream often lead to the death of those who followed, out of personal love for _him._

Briefly, the image of a black haired, twin-tailed Magus flashed in his mind, and he had to force himself to halt the shedding of a bitter tear.

He rasped out the words painfully, slowly, yet with definitive, certain finality.

"Do it."

The gentle, lilting voice of the impostor floated past his ears, a sweet melody that served only to poison and pollute his mind. "Are you certain, my hero? Your enemies in this new world will be powerful entities, as powerful as the beings that once called themselves Gods."

His eyebrows twitched at the realization. The impostor smiled placatingly at the gesture, and, angrily, he brushed the strands of interlocking silver and red from his forehead, annoyed he had shown weakness in front of it.

"Yes, my dear hero. Do you understand?" the impostor's voice trilled like birdsong. "In this world, the Age of Gods never ended. Higher beings of the supernatural continue to dominate the will of humans, playing with their lives as if they were nothing but toys. You will likely be crushed like an insect far before you even come close to succeeding."

It didn't matter. All his life, he had fought against beings far beyond him, monsters that could easily drive the most rational and even-minded of men into insanity. And not only did he live, he triumphed against such monstrous forces, seemingly against all odds.

"Do it."

It sighed patronizingly, as if it were talking to a young child. "You likely will never come back. You likely will never reach _her_. Tell me, do you really want that to happen? Do you remember what that Magus told you? 'If you want to meet again as normal people, then two miracles must occur. One must wait continuously, one must pursue endlessly.' By traveling to an entirely different world, you are further reducing your chance of ever reuniting. You are condemning yourself to a contract that you cannot back out of, that you will be bound to forever, even in death, until you accomplish it. And if you fail, you will be mercilessly extinguished and forgotten, your soul erased from all records, even mine. All of this, for the sake of a single life of a Homunculi. Is that what you want?"

A solitary tear escaped from its binding and rolled down his cheek, before reaching the edge of his lined face and falling onto the pale blade of a sword below him. Faintly, he felt the last vestiges of the sun disappear, the comforting warmth fading away quickly before he was left mercilessly in the realm of the dark night.

Absentmindedly, he traced the wet track of the tear, feeling the moisture gather on the tip of his finger before disappearing entirely, drying in the cool night air.

Choice.

To be, or not to be.

To do, or not to do.

To remember, or to forget.

It would be so easy to give up there. So simple to take the easy path. To abandon his ideal, no matter how beautiful it was, so he could be granted eternal reprieve from the nightmare he had lived in for so many long years.

It frightened him how much he _wanted_ to take that path. Frightened him how much he wanted to give into that part of him that had always doubted him, the part whose seeds had been planted long ago by a knight clad in red and black.

But...

But giving in would be betraying her memory, _the__ir _memory, wouldn't it? All of those who had fought and bled beside him, refusing to turn aside, dying for his sake, dying _for _him so that he would struggle futilely for a few more years...

Inwardly, he laughed bitterly. In the end, even Humanity's greatest weapon, choice, had been illusion. He had already known what he would do, even before a decision had been offered to him.

Perhaps he was simply a slave to memory, refusing to give up on the broken shards of distant dream, even though he knew it was in vain.

But then _she _would be there, the _real_ her - not the impostor that stood before him now - her golden laughter sending shivers up his spine and bringing a small smile to his weary face.

His amber eyes snapped open, reinvigorated, burning with definitive and decisive fire. He spoke without faltering, as unyielding as the steel that made up his blades.

"Do it. Save her. Even if it will cost my soul."

The impostor smiled, her soulless, yet angelically beautiful, face inciting painful throbs in his chest.

"Then rejoice, Emiya Shirou, for your wish has been granted."

* * *

_"He who is a leader must always act alone. And acting alone, accept everything alone."_

_-Ferdinand Marcos_

**STEEL SAVIOR**

Chapter 1: The Man from Nowhere

It was perhaps ironic that the first person he met here was so much like _her_.

Of course, there were many differences. While his long-lost lover had bright, glowing blonde hair that shone like the sun and slim, proportioned features, the girl in front of him had raven locks that fell to the sides of her face, framing a full face with almost elven-like qualities, a pair of small round glasses perched on top of a delicate nose. While _she_ had brilliant emerald eyes that shone with an inner, almost holy light that never failed to inspire him, the girl in front of him had vibrant violet eyes that were deep and intoxicating, able to enthrall any lesser man.

Yet, even with the differences, it was quite obvious from the moment that he met her that there was no other as similar to his lost love than the girl in front of him.

Serious and stoic, heavily duty-driven, a natural leader, and a willful desire to help all her peers without prejudice. Loyal to a fault, devoted to her responsibilities. Never faltering, never bending, never giving in. Aloof and proud, always leading alone.

And with leading alone, acting alone, and with acting alone, accepting everything alone.

It almost saddened him to see someone as young as her take up the burdens of the school alone, but he reminded himself that his lover had been far younger when she had borne the entire kingdom on her shoulders.

Shitori Sona, she introduced herself as. Of Class 3-A.

Probable valedictorian. Star of the Track Team. Third most popular girl in the entire girl. And to top it off, the Student Council President.

She also was not a human.

That's what his senses told him when, no, even before he first saw her. The tantalizing scent of exotic spice somehow mixed with the the salty scent of the sea that was only highlighted by a cool and calm presence.

"Emiya-san?"

He stiffened slightly before schooling a pleasant expression on his face. "Yes, Shitori-kaichou?"

She sighed heavily, before turning a small glare on him. "Were you even listening to me?"

The sunlight glinted dramatically, almost threateningly, off her sunglasses, and coupled with the slight furrowing of her eyebrows, he could tell she was annoyed.

Was she trying to intimidate him into listening to her?

Cute.

Try as she might, his constant exposure to Rin's glares, which could, and _did_, cow even an Apostle Ancestor, had completely desensitized him to all other forms of intimidation.

But nevertheless, he bowed his head in deference. "Of course, kaichou."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps you can tell me what I just said about the building over there?"

She pointed at a lavish, ornate building that was rather secluded in comparison to the other buildings, swept covertly within the cover of the thick forest that lay on Kuoh Academy's grounds.

He noted with interest that the building was infused with potent supernatural energies, swirling tendrils of what appeared to be Prana trailing across its walls. Calmly, he spoke. "The building is strictly reserved for the members of Kuoh Academy's award-winning Occult Research Club, and under no circumstances are regular students allowed near it with exception to members of the club itself and the Student Council. Am I right?"

Silence fell between the two, and for a moment, only the faint chatter of faraway students could be heard.

"...Yes" she said tightly. "Forgive me, Emiya-san, for my unwarranted presumptions. I had mistakenly thought your mind had wandered."

Confused, he looked back at the president, noting the annoyed and ever so slightly scrunched up look on her face.

Ah. Perhaps he shouldn't have answered as detailed as he had. She had been right to assume that he wasn't listening, but, after years of actively Reinforcing his mind, a highly risky practice that few dared tried, he was able to take in enormous amounts of stimuli at the same time and memorize them simultaneously.

"No need, kaichou. Please, continue."

She grimaced, shaking her head once as if to clear the thoughts on her mind, before clearing her throat and speaking. "Over here is the Home Economics Room. You will..."

Once more, he allowed his mind to drift off.

In the past few months, he had made a half-hearted effort to discover evidence of the supernatural within Japan.

The search, which began in the city of Kobe, apparently _this_ world's alternate version of Fuyuki, ended in failure, as he failed to even sense the slightest presence of a Grail Vessel, or even a single Magus.

It was only after he had scoured through the entirety of Japan that he stumbled upon the tiny gemstone known as Kuoh Academy. Not only was it mysteriously constructed in the span of two days, yet having some of the most opulent architecture and advanced structural buildings in all of Japan, it was located on the main intersection of _four_ major leylines, and was by far one of the strongest magically saturated areas in the _world_.

In response to his find, he settled in the area four months ago, and, after a six-hour examination, a breeze after the high-level university education that Rin had forced him through, and a three-and-a-half month long application process, enrolled into the Academy.

And so here he was, being given a tour by the definitely non-human School President about the definitely Prana-infused Kuoh Academy.

He returned to his senses when he realized that Sona had suddenly stopped speaking, trailing off on her explanation on the Arts Room.

"Kaichou?" he asked inquisitively.

She stared out the window, not replying, before sighing heavily. Her hand moved to her temple and massaged it vigorously, as if to assuage a migraine. "Not again..."

Curious, he tilted his head to look out the window, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Across the courtyard were a trio of boys, each with a lecherous grin spread across their face. They were all gathered around a small area next to the building, craning their necks painfully as if to see something inside.

"Who are they? And...what exactly are they doing?"

Sona sighed again. "They're perhaps the biggest downturn to this school. Matsuda, Motohama, and their unofficial leader Hyoudou Issei," she said, an undertone of annoyance now apparent in her voice. "More widely known throughout Kuoh as the Perverted Trio. Right now they're trying to peek in on the Girls' Locker Room...for the seventh time this year."

"The seventh time?" he asked incredulously. "If I'm not mistaken, today is January eleventh. That means..."

"Seven times _this year_, believe me." She huffed. "After over thirty detentions and a suspension apiece, you'd think they'd actually learn their lesson."

"Shouldn't you be reprimanding them then?" he asked cautiously, having half the mind to go outside and beat them with his own hands.

One of the few things that could arouse a powerful response from him was any form of sexual harassment. The incident with Shinji and Sakura had enraged him so much that it had taken the combined strength of Rin, Sakura, and Waver, who had arrived to investigate the debacle of the Fifth War, to prevent him from murdering the _worm_ with his bare hands.

The _thing_ had raped her, every single day, for years. Beaten her, demeaned her, dehumanized her, uncaring that her soul had grown darker and darker to the brink of snapping completely.

If it had gone on for any longer, than it would've been too late to save her, and he would've been forced to kill his closest childhood friend, as her mind would've snapped completely, turning her into little better than a rabid dog.

But save her they did, and though the operation had been extremely close, she had made it.

The incident had, since then, instilled upon a him a deep-seated hatred for sexual crimes, to a point he often went overboard with punishing deviants, even acts such as peeping.

"There's no need. Look. Here comes the Girls' Kendo Team..." Sona's voice trailed off, an almost amused undertone entering her voice.

He watched, rather bemused, as the girls, armed to the teeth with their bamboo shinai, mercilessly rained down blow after blow upon the hapless forms of the perverts. Their pained cries were so loud that they could be heard clearly from across the courtyard, even penetrating through the thick glass window that separated the two from the chilly outside.

"See to it that you make wise decisions when it comes to making friends." Sona sighed, shaking her head amusedly, before a small smile graced her face. "I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong crowd here at Kuoh Academy. You're a good person, Emiya-san. I can tell."

"Thank you, Shitori-kaichou." He offered a sad, knowing smile, and quietly turned away, ignoring the confused look on her face.

Yet he paid it no mind. The bitter irony was perhaps lost on her, but was most definitely _not_ lost on him.

The thousands he had killed in the name of his ideal would say the contrary to her final words.

* * *

It had been a little over a year since he arrived, and he found himself rather satisfied with his life, as meaningless and purposeless it was.

An entire year he had spent without going on life-or-death missions, charged with saving the world, being sent to kill five hundred Dead Apostles in Siberia, and instead living a peaceful, uneventful life. In fact, the most startling situation he had to deal with the reversing of his aging; apparently, Alaya had seen it fit to return him to the physical age of roughly seventeen years of age, stiff circuits and all.

It somewhat irked him that a full decade of refining his Magical Circuits had gone to waste, but in the end, he reckoned he was lucky to enough to retain his memories and Reality Marble.

Other than the "de-aging," however, life went on peacefully. Life became less of a rush of events and instead a long period of stagnation, with little to do and nothing to accomplish.

Sometimes, he wished that it would never end, this life of tranquility. It meant not having to go through the pain of facing the hypocrisy in his ideals, not having to go through the pain of thinking of _her _so often.

Of course, he didn't go about his daily life without following his ideals, not in the very least.

In fact, within his four months of residing in the city around which Kuoh Academy was built, he had already stopped over thirty different crimes and misdemeanors, ranging from petty thievery to attempted murder.

Not to mention the sheer number of cats he had returned to their owners after they had taken refuge in the boughs of trees.

Seriously, wasn't that suppose to be an American thing?

Aside from preventing the odd crime here and there, however, he made little effort in further pursuing the accomplishment of the ideal he had inherited. It was a beautiful thing, the ideal that he and Kiritsugu and Saber and thousands of others had pursued, but it was also a crushing thing, heavier than the weight of the world itself.

For if even Atlas, the Titan of Strength itself, fell to his knees bearing the world, what could a human, or a Magus, do to hold up the weight of something greater than the World?

Nothing. The continuous bearing of Humanity's sins was what broke EMIYA, and he would not become the monster that his counterpart had eventually become, forced to slay endlessly in perhaps the ultimate betrayal of his ideal. And after years of fighting, even he had seen the futility of saving everyone, the futility of facing all the World's Sin Alone.

Yes, he was still a distorted, selfless idiot, like Rin always called him, but at least Rin could no longer say that he was an irrational, distorted, _and_ selfless idiot.

Although really, knowing Rin, she would quickly replace the disparaging adjective with a new, even more potent one.

Like with the pursuit of his ideals, he didn't lapse in the furthering of his Magecraft either.

Within a few days of taking residency within a small apartment a short distance away from the Academy, he had already constructed a small Workshop guarded by some of his more potent mysteries that lay in a separate "dimension," a technique that Rin had managed to develop under tutelage of Zeltrech, the wielder of the Second True Magic, the Kaleidescope.

It was to his surprise and great satisfaction during his initial research in the Workshop that Gaia's ultra-weak presence had allowed him to make his Projections almost completely accurate to the original.

Ninety-nine point eight-eight percent accurate. Right down to its complete history. Even the Projections he made that were not blades only suffered a single rank of degradation while costing only a few units of Prana.

Working on his research also gave him something to do to pass the time, and it was never a bad idea to further his own Magecraft in preparation for whatever Alaya had warned him of.

Indeed, it did seem like a tense, worried mood had begun to set upon the city.

People no longer smiled like they did when he first arrived, no longer laughed, and instead were set upon going about their daily lives without their original color.

It was a depressing sight, and after only a few months of exposure, he had begun to wither in face of the insidiously growing feeling of despair that suffused the city.

Yet there were a few bright spots to be found, here and there, and clutched to them as a dying man would on the vestiges of life, for it gave him hope.

A few days before, he had escorted a priestess with tumbling blonde hair and an aura of purity and innocence that hung around her to a nearby, abandoned church.

She had been an innocent girl, almost to the point of being naive, but somehow, her presence was comforting to him.

The priestess was also, paradoxically, extraordinarily perceptive, far more than many her age.

"You've seen a lot of horrible things, haven't you, mister?" she had asked him, as they walked through the small park where he had met her.

He had only offered a sad smile as his response, yet both he and she knew he had committed many of said terrible things.

The girl had then turned away from him, and for a moment, he thought that she was disgusted with him, but when she turned back, she had perhaps the most genuine smile he had seen encompassing her face.

"But I'm sure you've done far more good things than you think you have as well."

They soon after arrived at the church, and they parted ways after exchanging goodbyes.

As comforting as the exchange was, it was last time he saw her, and soon the glimmer of warmth faded into distant memory.

And so he continued with his life, attending Kuoh Academy, working odd jobs here and there around his part-time job at a small café that reminded him strongly of the Copenhagen.

Whenever he had spare time, which was rare, he would sit in _his_ world, gazing at the sun that sat on the edge of the horizon, light glinting of the thousands of blades scattered across the barren field.

* * *

He first met the magical girl as he sat on the sidewalk next to the entrance of a small convenience store.

It was late at night, perhaps ten or eleven o clock, and he was brooding after another day of performing odd jobs to support himself. A can of beer swung lightly from his hand before being brought up towards his dusty throat.

He felt the burn of the alcohol travel down his throat harshly, but he didn't care. The pain was refreshing, and revitalized him in ways other substances couldn't.

"The hero of the Fifth War," he said out loud, letting the tension fall away from his shoulders. "Reduced to this. If Rin could see me right now, she'd probably kill me."

And then he smelt it. Yet another exotic scent of spice that was extraordinarily similar to that of Sona, but this one had the flavor of icy burn to it, and more importantly...

It was, impossibly, hundreds of times stronger than Kuoh Academy's Student Council's President's.

"What are you doing, mister?"

He twisted his head slowly, maintaining the same calm, _perfect_ breathing that he had mastered years before, even if it was just a facade.

In front of him, a petite girl stood, outlined by the starred night sky above. Raven hair was pulled up into two elegant twin-tails, framing an attractive face with intense violet eyes and full lips. She was also dressed unconventionally, in what appeared to be a cosplay outfit. A pink frilly top covered her torso, yet was skimpy enough to be almost indecently revealing. A short pink skirt covered just enough to be deemed acceptable to be worn in public. Black arm coverings extended from her elbows past her forearms, splitting into form-fitting gloves that allowed her fingers to slip through. A thin wand, colored pink, spun in her hand, its yellow star-shaped point almost hypnotizing in its motion.

For a moment, an image of a certain twin-tailed female Magus with azure eyes stood superimposed on the girl in front of him.

Rin as a magical girl? He almost snorted in incredulity.

This was definitely not the female Magus that had become his closest confidant, best friend, and lover that had stayed by his side for the entirety of his life, and whom he had left back in _his_ world.

Besides, Rin had ocean-blue eyes, not violet ones, and, as he was somewhat embarrassed to see a lot less...

Well-endowed?

Angrily he shook the thought away. It was no time to be reminiscing, especially when a potentially hostile god-like entity stood before him. Quickly, he turned his attention back to figure in front of him.

"Merely thinking," he replied smoothly, shaking the mix of silver and red bangs away from his eyes. Smoothly, he pulled a beer from the plastic bag that lay next to him, offering it to the girl next to him. "Care to join me?"

"Baka!" the girl glared, and he frowned, wondering if he had said something offensive. "I'm a magical girl! Magical girls don't drink!"

He deadpanned.

Silence reigned as the two stared at one another for several tense, awkward seconds...

...Before it was broken by his raucous laughter.

Hilarious.

Simply hilarious, he thought darkly to himself.

"Why are you laughing, Mr. Stranger?" the magical girl asked, pouting so exaggeratedly that he could almost believe her for a moment, before plopping down by his side. "It isn't as funny when you're not in on the joke as well, you know."

"Its nothing," he said in reply, maintaining the light tone, although the dank, yet humorous, weight of irony did not lift from his shoulders. "You truly believe that you're a magical girl, don't you?"

It wasn't often he met someone as distorted as he was. After all, there were only seven humans in the entire history of _his_ world who had possessed Reality Marbles, and he was one of the honored members amongst its ranks. Even the great conqueror-king Iskandar, better known as Alexander the Great, did not receive one until after his death.

But if she was like him...

"Of course!" she replied indignantly. "How can you _not_ think that I'm a magical girl? I fight for Love and Justice, complete with an outfit, wand, and real magical powers!" She winked playfully, but both she and he knew that she was serious.

He merely smiled mysteriously in response. "Then we are perhaps far more similar than we appear."

A comfortable silence fell between the two as they stared at the night sky that lay far above.

It was in fact so peaceful and tranquil that it was only a few minutes later when he finally remembered his manners.

"Emiya. Emiya Shirou," he said, awkwardly tilting his head in a half-bow, half-expecting out of habit a hiss of fear or awe...or both.

In another world, the name was spoken like a curse. A name that could instill fear in the most hardened of Magi, cause entire criminal rings to fly, and even force the Queen of Clock Tower herself to acknowledge him as one worthy of her respect.

The Wrought Iron Magus, many called him. A merciless freelancer with fairly strong ties to Clock Tower and the Church that hunted down those who had wronged him like a relentless hawk pursuing its prey, never failing to exterminate his target completely.

Killer. Murderer. Psycopath. He had been called all those before, by both strangers and acquaintances, by both historians and poets.

Yes. The name Emiya Shirou, back in _his_ world, had been legendary, and merely speaking it could often cast a dark mood within the room.

But in this world, it was meaningless. And so there was no harm in telling the truth.

"Serafall. Just Serafall," the magical girl said in return, smiling cheerfully, showcasing her brilliant white, almost _too_-white teeth. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," he said, nodding lightly, paying no attention to the unique name. There were far stranger things in the world around him.

With that, the two returned to gazing at the stars above, and, strangely, although his mind wandered about a meandering path, lost and confused, he felt at peace.

* * *

He saw it in a dream.

Rich green hills, flowing rivers, even the hints of dandelions peeking out from the fresh spring soil. A brilliant yellow sun shone above, casting beautiful rays of light that caught caught the dew hanging on the tips of blades grass. Across the clear blue sky, where only the tiny forms of cirrus clouds could be seen, a rainbow shone in its full glory, the multiple colors glittering like gems across the background.

But the landscape was not completely unmarred, its beauty not wholesome. It was not perfect, it was not undisturbed, and, in fact, its ugly scars indicated a turbulent and violent past that lay beneath the beautiful land.

Yet, somehow, its scarring impressed a deeper meaning upon him than it would otherwise.

Massive metal gears, broken and useless, lay scattered about randomly, their purpose forgotten by their original user.

Confusion grasped his mind.

Why were there?

What were they used for?

He gazed about the scenery, eyes slipping away from the broken gears, already forgotten, and latching onto oddly shaped, thin protrusions from the ground that dotted the grassy hillsides.

A closer look revealed their composition of thin, heavily rusted metal, perhaps of iron or...

Steel.

Yes.

The protrusions were steel objects, yet despite their forging from such a strong material, the length of time that had passed since their creation had coated them with a thick layer of rust. Now, they seemed frail and weak, an anachronistic vestige of a forgotten age, rather than strong constructions they once were.

But exactly what where they?

He scrutinized the odd protrusions carefully for many minutes, staring at their rusted and decrepit forms, until it dawned upon him.

How could he have had forgotten?

They were...

Blades.

And then it awoke. A distant memory of what had once been, a nightmare from which he had awoken from.

He had once used them often, hadn't he? They were an integral part of him a long time ago, so interconnected with himself that they even composed his own soul.

A Reality Marble, he recalled. The shaping of the world around them into one's imagined terra, and outward expression of their inner soul. Magecraft that was merely a shade away from True Sorcery itself.

But that was a long time ago, and his soul had since moved on, latched onto something else to be defined as.

Where was that now?

What defined _him_ now?

He sat heavily on on the wet, dewy grass, feeling the cool moisture soak into his clothes, and closed his eyes, a frustrated sign escaping confines of his mouth.

"Shirou."

The voice spoke quietly, succinctly, but the heartfelt emotion behind it spoke volumes.

It was _her _voice.

He turned.

She stood on a grassy knoll, her blonde hair gently floating in the air as a zephyr passed through. Time stopped, and all he could see, all that mattered, was _her_.

Royal, rich emerald met warm golden brown, and in that moment, he could feel something reconnect in his heart, almost as if remembering something important that he had forgotten a long time before.

"Saber?" he asked, hesitant, unwilling to believe it was really _her_. After all, he had searched so long and hard without finding a trace of her. What was to say this wasn't an illusion as well?

His lover smiled, its radiance more blinding than the sun itself, washing away his worries as gently as slow-moving stream. Slowly, she extended her hand, and he reached for it, hesitantly, desperately, like a dying prisoner would for freedom that lay in his grasp.

"I'm here, Shirou," she said softly, her voice lilting like a melody on the spring breeze. "_We're _here, Shirou."

In the distance, he could make out a small group of people standing on the next, higher hill, where a small house could be made out.

A familiar twin-tailed Magus dressed in her trademark red sweater and a short black skirt, her azure eyes sparkling. A gently smiling girl with matching lavender hair and eyes. A raucous woman with short brown hair waving wildly. A tall man with wild black hair, coal-black eyes gazing fondly at him, one arm wrapped around a beautiful white-haired woman next to him. A chattering young girl, a carbon copy of the white haired woman, jumped up and down excitedly, pointing at him from afar.

And he laughed. Brilliant, ebullient laugher exploded from him, a joy that he had long forgotten encompassing him entirely in a single glorious moment.

He sprung to his feet, wrapping the girl in front of him into his arms, burying his lips into hers, tasting the sweetness of honeysuckle on her mouth.

Everything was new again, and everything was beautiful once more, the darkness that had made up his life for so many years turning into pure white light.

The scent of her skin. The softness of her arms. The fire and passion alit in her brilliant green eyes. The silkiness of her blonde hair caressing him.

Then, when the breath had finally left him and he gasped for air, joyful tears streaming down his face, she merely smiled sadly once more, her soft, dainty fingers running through his hair.

Her lips parted hesitantly, and five soft words escaped her mouth.

"Just a little longer, Shirou."

And the dream began to fade, replaced by oppressive reality. Already, he could see the world shatter into nothingness, black replacing the vibrant color around him.

He screamed, cried, _begged_ for her to come back. Beseeched her to stay with him forever, in that perfect world where his blades were no longer needed, where they could live in peace forever.

But she simply smiled, even as tears fell from her own eyes and cascaded down her cheeks.

The last thing he saw before he awoke was her beautiful, yet fragile face mouthing three words, each of which he caught and understood perfectly.

He had cried late in the night after that, unable to sleep after the vision that had struck him.

Yet another painful reminder of how far away she was from him.

Rage, anger, and bitter resentment filled him, and he mindlessly slammed his hand into the wall next to him, ignoring the reprimanding yells from the adjoining apartment.

Why?

Why was he thrust back into his never-ending duty, bearing mankind on his shoulders, after doing so for so long? Why was he separated from _her_, time and time again?

Yet...

He sighed heavily as the last violent sobs disappeared, wiping the remnants of the bitter tears off his face.

And then, quite suddenly, a beatific, joyful smile erupted on his face, as he came to realization. He closed his eyes, and when he remembered her breath on his face, the vitalizing scent of lavender washing over him, the softness of her lips, only a small tear slipped down his face.

She still waited.

And he still searched.

* * *

His first encounter with Hyoudou Issei, was, not surprisingly, when the pervert was trying to escape the wrath of the Girl's Kendo Team once again, less than a week after the first incident when he toured the school.

Smoothly, he had tripped the boy as he passed by him, earning him an indignant "what?" from the fallen pervert and grateful smiles from the shinai-wielding girls. A few seconds later, from behind his back, he heard Issei's panicked cries above the angry yells from the girls, followed by the subsequent sound of bamboo meeting flesh.

A day later, Issei marched up to him in the middle of the class, ignoring the fact that he was an upperclassman, demanding answers.

"The hell was up yesterday? Why did you trip me...uh...what was your name again?"

"Emiya Shirou." He inclined his head slightly, almost disrespectfully, towards the pervert and raised a single eyebrow. "As for why I tripped you, it simply was because I didn't believe that spying on girls in the middle of changing was something to be condoned, Hyoudou-kouhai."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sona half rise out of her seat, prepared to intervene in the confrontation. He shook his slightly, so slightly it was almost imperceptible, but he knew his message got across when Sona merely stood to the side.

He was almost sure she was testing him, but it was of little importance; after all, he had been wanting to give Issei a strict dressing down for his deplorable behavior.

"Do you not realize the disgust you arise in others who see you on a daily basis? Tell me, why are you stooping to such pathetic levels to satisfy your base desires? If you cannot even restrain yourself in the sight of any girl, you are no better than an lustful, unenlightened animal looking for something to _rut_," he said patronizingly, as if he were delivering a lecture on gene splicing to a cockroach. "In that case, I would advise perhaps a pencil sharpener, as anything with a larger radius will be unnecessary given the likes of you, or maybe the rectum one of your other perverted friends."

Issei had the decency to look ashamed, and a good deal insulted, by his lecturing, and he reclined, satisfied he had brought about change, albeit a minor one, to the pervert's attitude.

Unfortunately, his celebration came prematurely.

"No!" A determined look suddenly crossed the pervert's face, his mouth opening wide as if to deliver a memorable speech. "Emiya-senpai! I understand that you have been conditioned by prudish society that is is morally unacceptable to peek in on girls!" the boy cried out. "But...but you must cut through the dark cloud of ignorance that they have cast upon you! Can you not imagine the pleasure as you give into your carnal desires? Imagine the beautiful, exhilarating, liberating pleasures of the flesh? I know that you are not as experienced as many of us, me included," Issei stated rather proudly. "But you must not let that scare you into a sex-less life!"

A small, immature part of him wanted to deny that outright. After all, he _had_ participated in a particularly amorous activity with the female version of King Arthur and Rin _at the same time_, albeit it was for the technical purpose of transferring desperately needed Prana in order to combat the giant Berserker that stalked through the night.

But then again the three of them had participated in the same activity the next night. And the next. And the next after that. All the way up until the climatic end of the Fifth War.

"I will lead to you to a Heaven of flesh! A utopia where women with large oppai dote on us at every hour!" Issei's voice grew in volume, and the pervert threw out an arm dramatically, beckoning him. "Come! Come to the light side! Join me on my quest to feast on oppai, and I promise you, you will never regret it!"

He blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. Issei was posed, a clenched fist thrust high into the air, exactly like the protagonist from one of those shōnen manga that were so popular these days, as if he were leading an army. All in all, it would've been an inspiring sight, had his cause been a noble one and not the lustful pursuit of voluptuous women.

A second later, the pervert was gone, squawking in pain as Sona dragged him out by the ear and proceeded to give him a stern lecturing in the hallway.

Over the next few weeks, Issei constantly confronted him every day, cornering him in the hallway with his other two, just as perverted friends and proceeding to lecture on multiple parts of a women's body in a specifically non-physiological and rather pig-headed manner. The spiel of harems, breasts, and female nether regions had propagated to such an extent that he almost considered it a constant in his life, if a highly irritating and angering one.

Objectifying women was also something that annoyed him, and the pervert quickly learned that after being smashed in the back he head after stating girls with small breasts were not worthy of being looked at, let alone dating.

It was most likely due to the efforts of the girls that he didn't go insane. Rumors of the Perverted Trio trying to convert another boy, an upperclassman no less, to create a Perverted Quartet, spread like a wildfire, and by the end of the week, whenever Issei and his friends tried to come near him, they were chased off by a consortium of mops, shinai, and softball bats.

That didn't prevent the occasional small-talk from breaking out whenever they encountered each other.

"I have a girlfriend!" he crowed excitedly one day when they passed one another in the hall. "I proved you wrong! Ha! I told you that I would get one one day! This is the beginning of my harem route! I'm so EXCITED!"

He smiled in amusement. Perhaps a tryst with the opposite sex would temper Issei's more perverted tendencies.

"But...what do I do?" the boy fretted. "I've never dated a girl before! Heck, no girl has _ever _said that they liked me before? What will I do if I mess up? What should I do? I don't know, I don't know, I don't kno-"

"You're panicking," he said calmly. "Just relax, and take a deep breath."

Issei stopped in the middle of his outburst, breathing in slowly and letting it out in a massive exhale.

"Better?" he asked.

The other boy nodded. "Yeah, lots. Thanks Emiya-senpai. But...do you know what should I do? I mean, how can I make sure she stays liking me? She's so pretty, and I think I might get nervous and screw up something, y'know? And not to ment-"

He held up his hand in annoyance, and Issei took another series of deep breaths. Quickly, he thought of a way to answer the boy's question without getting him too nervous.

Unfortunately, he didn't really know. The two romances he had did not end happily, and neither of those relationships could be classified as "normal" by any means.

So he told the younger boy probably the most clichéd advice possible: To be himself, and not worry too much.

And don't kiss on the first date. To him, it seemed improper, never mind the fact that he _slept _withhis lovers before even taking them out on a date.

"Thanks Emiya-senpai! I really appreciate it!" Issei said cheerfully, giving him a double thumbs up, to his vague amusement. "I'll do my best!"

With a bright, grateful smile, the pervert took off, and he was left feeling that perhaps there was some hope for the boy in the future provided he didn't mess up the date _too_ badly.

The next time he saw Issei, however, everything had changed.

From his happy demeanor, carefree personality, and even his near-legendary perverseness.

But most importantly, his _scent_ changed.

No longer was it reeking of the sticky stench of perversity, although a strong tinge could still be smelled, but rather contained the scent of blood and fire, almost like that of a dragon. Faintly, he could detect the slight sweet smell of ripe fruit that hovered around the Occult Research Club, a pungent odor that he particularly likened to the Club's president, Gremory Rias, the most popular girl in the school.

But he did not ask, nor did he mention the change he noticed. He merely gave Issei a pat on the back and a reassuring smile before walking to his own classroom, figuring that the boy simply needed some time to adjust to whatever he had gone through.

A week later, Issei came to him. "Hey, Emya-senpaii! What would you do if you wanted to save someone, but your boss told you it was too dangerous to try?"

He promptly asked the boy why he would as him such an out-of-place question.

"N-n-nothing! I just wanted to ask you, since you always seem to know everything."

His eyes narrowed when he spotted the genuine desperation poorly hidden on Issei's face.

Finally, he answered, albeit in a way as so to avert a potential misunderstanding. "If you were in such a _hypothetical_ situation," he said, noticing the slight flinch Issei let out, "I would advise you to exercise caution over rash decisions, and rationally plan out your actions. Of course, if such a hypothetical situation even existed in the first place, I would advise you to leave such matters in the hands of the police, rather than yourself."

Inwardly, he knew that he himself would not have followed his own advice, and instead charged into the fray, prepared to save the person by any means necessary.

"Great! I knew I as right! I'm gonna go rescue her now!" Issei brightened up suddenly. "Thank you for the advice, Emiya-senpai!"

...

He sighed, staring at the retreating form of Issei's back before shaking his head.

And he actually _tried_ to avoid a misunderstanding.

Slowly, he stood up, sliding his chair back into its original position beneath the desk.

He had to make sure that the pervert didn't do something stupid, and, sadly, he was almost certain that whatever Issei was doing, it was stupid.

It was ten minutes into tracking the oddly-smelling Issei when he realized that he had taken the same route once before, when he was escorting the priestess to the abandoned church.

Worry and apprehension began to build within him, as memories of a blonde haired priestess returned to him, and he briskened his pace drastically, using slight Prana Bursts to send him flying fifteen feet forward with every step. He kept his eyes on the almost domineering, ominous outline of the church that lay on a faraway hill as he moved through the abandoned road, blazing past the occasional passerby, uncaring that his actions could expose the existence of the supernatural to the human world.

Even so, it took another five minutes to reach his destination, and when he finally arrived, there was no sign of the boy he was searching for. The land outside the church lay eerily silent and dormant, completely undisturbed.

Curious, he took a slight whiff of the air, but could only detect the faintest trace of blood and fire that composed Issei's scent.

He slowly walked up to the entrance of the church, his footsteps echoing loudly an unnatural off the stone path. He let his hand hesitantly trace the brass handle of the door, an almost electric feel connecting his skin to the cool metal.

Should he have done this? Painfully, he strained his ears to the maximum, struggling to make out the faint sounds that emanated from behind the thick wooden door.

Nothing.

Heavily, he sighed, thinking there was no point to him being there, and turned away, preparing for the long walk home.

Until he heard the explosion, and the resonating, pained cry of Issei not a second later.

Without even thinking, he threw himself forward, clasping his hand around the handle and pulling harshly, forcing the door open.

A quick glance at his surrounding served to confirm his worries.

The inside of the church was, quite simply put, completely destroyed, as if a massive battle had taken place in it. The wooden church pews were scattered about, many shattered and broken. Splinters of wood were spread across the floor, as numerous as the grass upon Kuoh Academy's fields, each with a point as keen as a knife. The tall spires of the Gothic Church were lined with massive craters, the black marks almost blasphemous upon the holy walls, decreasing the strength of the spiritual energies that gathered there. Shards of broken glass lay askew below the remnants of the windows, their long, thin edges glinting dangerously in the faint light of the setting sun.

But most horrifyingly, prominently at the sacred altar was a crucifix, a girl, _the very same girl_ he had helped merely a week before, nailed to the enormous cross in a cruel mockery of the image of Christ's crucifixion painted merely feet away. Her long, once-pristine blonde hair was now matted with sweat and grime, and her white priestess clothing was stained with the dark crimson red of blood.

And then he saw _them_.

Great beings with massive black wings that seemed to darken to the room with their mere presence, striking both awe and fear in those who viewed them. A middle-aged man with a dark beard lounged lazily on the balcony, inspecting what appeared to be a bottle of wine. A young girl with blonde curls watched the scene dispassionately, switching her gaze ever so often from her nails to the crucified form of the priestess. A blue-haired woman reclined on a nearby pew, her eyes closed, expression twisted into one of boredom.

And the fourth...

The fourth stood conspicuously above the rest, for she was the one currently engaging his classmate.

She was a tall, proud, vain being. Lustrous black hair cascaded around her face, stern features twisted into a repulsive mask, cold eyes peering out from behind a contorted face.

"Emiya-senapi?" Issei cried out, seemingly in shock, a crimson gauntlet glowing brilliantly on his right arm. "What the HELL are you-never mind. Just run! Raynare will kill you if you stay! You hear me? Run right n-ERK!"

The lead Fallen kicked the perverted boy viciously, sending him flying a full thirty feet into a stone pillar that crumbled instantly under the force.

When the dust arose, the still body of Issei could be seen, crumpled over and broken.

Rage stirred within his chest, and he took a step in the injured boy's direction, determined to save his life.

Not three steps in, however, a flash of light suddenly caught his eye, and, out of instinct, he threw himself hard to the left, grunting as his shoulder hit the cold stone floor.

He was not a moment too soon.

A glimmering, ornate spear quivered from its position, sunk shaft-deep in the church's walls, thin cracks in the stone surrounding the weapon's point of impact.

"Oh...so this one can run?" Raynare said mockingly, her voice sickeningly-sweet. "Now may be my chance to have a little personal entertainment. At the very, least you can dodge well enough, unlike the pathetic mite over there." She nodded towards the broken form of Issei, before continuing, a deranged smile growing on her face. "So now...let's see you DANCE!"

Two more expertly thrown spears of light flashed towards him in less than an instant, but to him, it may have been more than a year. A simple sidestep averted the danger of the first, and a slight tilt of his head the second.

Angrily, he glared at the creature that floated elegantly above him, silently questioning her.

"My, my, my. You're so much better than I thought..." Raynare smiled, licking her lips in sadistic excitement. "This is going to be so much FUN!"

A dozen ornate spears of light were thrown this time, each in rapid succession, and he was forced to backpedal to avoid their respective trajectories.

As they passed, Prana flowed into his eyes, and he let the unconscious procedure of advanced Structural Analysis run, instantaneously allowing him to "read" the history of any blade.

It was then he saw the story of the Fallen in front of him, of her rise and eventual fall, of her birth and her figurative death.

She was once a strict Angel, diligently upholding the laws of Heaven, a harsh yet just being well-known for her beauty and loyalty.

But it wasn't enough. The death of God himself and majority of the mighty, supposedly undefeatable Archangels had shaken her convictions to the very core, and it took only the sweet honeyed words of Kobakiel to make her fall, lured by false promises and deceptive rewards.

Despite his best efforts, his rage died, and in its stead, only pity took hold.

Pity for the lost being who had sacrificed everything in the name of a love that was false, in the name of a beautiful idea that would never be known to her, only a veneer of it.

"Yes...FUN!" the Fallen cackled, a harsh, bitter sound that made him wince. "You are by far the most entertaining prey I have hunted for _years_. The other one," she gestured to the crumpled form that lay next to the broken pillar, "Merely stood there, shocked. An easy kill, with no effort required at all. Perhaps the only entertainment I received was from watching his expression of shock and betrayal as he bled to death. But you...you are different!"

A stream of projectiles now were fired at him almost simultaneously, the rate of which they were formed and thrown testament to her skill and power.

He grimaced. Even he couldn't avoid all the spears at once without using Magecraft of any sort.

But to reveal Magecraft here...

A sudden thought inspired him.

Recalling a memory from his benefactor in Clock Tower, he suddenly snatched an incoming light spear, and, twirling it with the skill of a master spearman, began blocking the descending volley of spears that crashed down upon him like a massive tidal wave.

Age-old instincts kicked in, and he fell into battle mode once more, this time not simply passively defending against the spears but deflecting them right back at his opponent, and her allies.

A smug satisfaction filled him when he saw the almost comical widening of their eyes as the divine weapons flew straight at them, point first, and their hurried, almost panicked flight from their original positions.

The stream of light spears ended abruptly, and he gained a brief respite, using the time to fall into an offensive spear stance and regain his breath.

It was to his unpleasant surprise that the spear in his hands suddenly shattered into sharp shards of light, cutting his hands severely. He stared impassively as red rivers of blood flowed down is palms, dripping onto the floor in copious amounts.

But no matter. He already could feel the broken skin reknit and the blood vessels repair, the gentle warmth of Avalon pressing against his wounds.

A grating, disdainful voice returned his attention to the Fallen in front of him.

"Fool," Raynare snarled. "Did you really think you could use our weapons freely without punishment, you inferior piece of trash? You think too highly of yourself, arrogant filth. Dohnaseek! Mittelt! Kalawarner! This..._scum_ needs to be taught a lesson! I want to see the despair in his eyes as he realizes the power us Fallen hold, and beg us to let him live. And then..." A sadistic gleam entered the Fallen's eyes. "We'll break him. Torture him until he no longer screams, until there is nothing but emptiness in his eyes. And once he ceases to amuse us, we will kill him."

"Are you sure?" the blonde child asked disdainfully. "It doesn't look like he could handle it. He's far too frail looking, even if he _did _manage to show some skill with a spear. But then again, most humans are."

The bearded man scoffed. "Hmph. I'd rather not waste my energy on this...thing. Talented for a human, but in comparison to us Fallen, he's just another piece trash." Raynare's answering glower made him wince. "But if you insist...I wouldn't mind obliging for a few good screams."

The final Fallen yawned tiredly, throwing her long blue hair back. "Same here. Could use some stretching anyhow."

Reaching concurrence, the three other Fallen lazily arose from their positions, a dozen light spears forming in existence, the fading light of the sun glinting off their sharp tips.

A moment later, four arms of four Fallen Angels swooped down to point at him, and, following them, came a rain of blades.

Swiftly he dove through the veritable storm of flying spears, ignoring the few grazes that he was forced to take as he moved towards safe cover that lay a few feet before him. He twisted gracefully around four spears, tilting his head to avoid another, before sliding beneath a final volley behind the safe cover of a mostly intact church pew.

Not a second a later, he heard the distinct _thwack-thwack-thwack_ of spears impacting the thick wood, their blades easily piercing the thin cover, almost impaling him on their razor-sharp tips.

Annoying. He had underestimated the strength and versatility in their throwing of spears, as well as the quality of the spears themselves.

His eyes narrowed briefly, and he let four Circuits flare, Prana flowing from within him and into the pew behind which he had taken cover, Reinforcing it to the strength of refined titanium ore.

He smiled at the indignant splutters of Raynare and her fellow Fallen as their weapons were no longer effective in penetrating the bench behind which he had taken cover.

Now to see review his options...

"Hiding behind your shelter like a craven rat, now, are we?" Raynare sneered, regaining her composure. "A pathetic coward merely cowering behind his shield, too afraid to meet his fate like a man. Is that what it is, you disgusting mongrel?"

His back stiffened slightly.

He had been called many things throughout his life, from a mass murderer to a crazed sociopath, a cheap-skate imitator to a hypocritical idealist.

Names were names, however, and he never let them affect him in such a way that they would adversely affect his performance.

But...

He did not like being called a coward.

No.

After all the years he had spent fighting, all the monstrosities he had faced alone, all the horrors of man that had been seared into his eyes, he could not, _would_ not let himself be called a coward.

It was no longer a matter of keeping Magecraft a secret, no longer a matter of delaying his impossible quest in this world for any longer.

He had pride in his swords, and for him, as the owner of the thousands of blades in his world, to be relegated to the status of a dog was an insult to the blades of the heroes that had come before him. Already he could feel them begging to be released from the bindings that restricted them to the domain of his soul, beseeching him for a chance to teach the pathetic mongrels before him the _true_ meaning of power.

Besides, what did he have to lose, really?

Grimly, he rose from the cover of the wooden church bench, standing resolutely against the cackling being in front of him.

The entity, a Fallen Angel, the weakened presence of Alaya supplied helpfully, tilted her head, the smile on her face growing more and more demented with the passing time. "Given up on hiding, have you? Such a pity. I was hoping you'd struggle for a bit longer, but in the end, you're just like the rest of those humans. Pathetic, worthless _fodder_. Now, now, be a good dear and _beg_, won't you?"

His only response was to flex his fingers, opening his hands as if to grasp the handles of two swords.

"No?" the Fallen Angel sneered, before extended its fingers. "Your arrogance sickens me. If you will not bow, then DIE! DIE like the ANIMAL YOU ARE!"

The spear formed from light began to form once more, morphing into existence rapidly, a razor sharp tip extending from a long shaft to form the deadly weapon.

But this time, he made no preparation to dodge.

Instead, he let his two favorite weapons emerge from his inner world, and press against the realm of existence, only the slightest touch of Prana needed to form them instantaneously.

Yes.

He now understood why his counterpart, the Counter Guardian EMIYA, used these weapons so much, even if their interpretations were radically different.

They fit his ideal perfectly. Two blades of Chinese make, one as white as the purest snow, and the other as black as the pitch darkness of night. Representative of the taijitu, the iconic circular symbol of yin and yang, they always sought one another, no matter how far the two were apart.

A "married" pair of twin swords, so to speak.

It only reminded him painfully more of Saber, and her now unfathomable distance from him.

They had no desire for fame, nor any desire to be utilized in battle. They merely wished to be together forever, past even the length of time itself.

According to the Greeks, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

Kanshou and Bakuya had already found one another. They were prepared to spend the rest of time together, through times of war and peace, times of rapture and sorrow, until time itself perished.

That was the reason he wielded them.

In another's hands, they were simply weapons.

In EMIYA's hands, they were a tragic symbol.

In his hands, they were a dream.

A destination to his endless journey. A conclusion to his own story, his story of the a lone, unknown hero dressed royal blue and white, searching tirelessly for his own other half.

Stoically, he gazed at the light spear that had finished forming on the tip of the Fallen Angel's finger, watching impassively as it was actualized fully into existence.

The Fallen Angel grinned wickedly, its face a perverted caricature of a true angel's, and flicked its finger, sending the spear in her hands flying towards him faster than the human eye could see.

* * *

It was a one in a million chance, no, a _billion _chance.

Something that the Fates themselves never truly meant to happen, a mistake in the course of life.

Something so minute that no one, not even the Gods themselves, would have given it a second thought.

Yet it still did.

For centuries, the weakened presences of both Gaia and Alaya, the Earth and the Will of Humanity, looked on helplessly as both nature and mankind were brutally oppressed by the Three Factions. For years, they had attempted to warn all who would listen of the dangerous machinations of extremists in each faction, and even the presence of a Fourth, as the tenuous peace set forth a mere five hundred years before struggled to stay alive.

Yet to no avail.

A perverted shade of an angel, with long pointed ears and slitted red eyes, plotted the outbreak of war. A crazed Exorcist with unstoppable blood thirst roamed the lands in a neverending hunt for the impure. An Archbishop experimented with human Transmutation and forbidden black arts to create users of the Great Holy Swords. A jealous, power-hungry, bespectacled devil sought to return the Demon Lords of old. A black-haired, foolish hero sat in the shadows and waited, biding his time to take revenge on the oppressors of humanity and oppress them in return in a misguided attempt to help Alaya. A massive red dragon waited on the edge of existence, its yellow eyes focusing slowly on the tiny ravaged planet of Earth, laughing at its inhabitants' foolishness.

Had the machinations of these entities gone without restraint, without interference, then the world would've eventually been torn apart by the opposing forces, each separate Faction fighting not just against one another but within themselves.

It would've been the end of Heaven, Hell, and Humanity itself.

But...

A new variable had been introduced.

Emiya Shirou.

A completely unknown factor, emerging from a rip in the time-space continuum detected only for the briefest of seconds before it was closed again.

It was a tiny difference, when objectively taken. After all, what could a single human do against entire races of Angels and Devils? Beings that had existed far before humans did, beings that held all the true power in the world and took the opportunity to completely dominate all aspects of nature and humankind themselves.

Yet the introduction of that one human eventually made all the difference.

A single variable changed, a single, tiny, insignificant _human_ introduced into the world of the Three Factions, and its fate was altered forever.

A magic that was never meant to be used.

A mantra that was never meant to be said.

A man who was never meant to exist.

Like a flash, it was sent throughout the entirety of the three worlds in an instant, a beacon of hope to many, and of dread to some, that vanished in the same instance. A sign of impending, unstoppable, unforgettable, unprecedented change.

The silver-haired man sat upon a crumbling throne, pondering the meaning of the disturbance.

The strongest of the devils, a red-haired man dressed in lavish clothing, clutched his throbbing head, unable to comprehend the vision that had just implanted itself into his mind.

The lazy devil, paradoxically the head of the military, shot out from his ornate bed, gasping and sweating heavily from the dream he had just seen.

The inventor looked up absentmindedly from his tools, accidentally knocking over a set of crimson chess pieces that he had created as he did so.

The magical girl dressed in bright pink tilted her head on a small road overlooking a brilliantly lit city, and smiled beatifically at the spring moon that shone high above.

The man with grizzled hair, the one who Fell due to his love for a mortal woman, tapped his fingers worriedly on his desk, forgetting about the rogue group of Fallen near Kuoh Academy and focusing on the new presence that had established itself formally into the world.

The hero leaned on his spear, gazing at the stars above him, and wondered about the sudden trepidation that crossed his mind.

The black-haired girl, the epitome of Chaos itself, winced as the flash of sword swept through her mind, glaring as she sought the location of the interference.

The massive red dragon stirred, and sniffed twice in the darkness that surrounded him. Its mouth twisted into hideous, gruesome smile as it read, and understood, the creation of a new presence.

* * *

"Trace..."

This was the end. The end of his brief reprieve. The end of his peace. The end of his old life, and beginning of his new one.

Wearily, he steeled his body, his mind, and his heart.

This was merely the result of his ideals, the consequence of saving the lives of others to an almost pathological extent. This was the result of his own selfish desire to save others, for in order for him to save others, he would need to wish for people to be saved. A hypocritical ideal, pursued to the very bitter end.

Yet...

He had no regrets. This was the only path.

Golden fire burned brilliantly as he snapped his eyes open, revealing them in their full glory to his enemy.

"...ON!"

* * *

**AN: So here it is. How was it? **

**This is going to be a dark story dealing with mature themes, and I'll try writing them to the best of my ability, although I'm not sure I can pull it off. Comic humor will be rare, although that doesn't mean there will be none whatsoever.**

**No harem either. I'm tired of reading fic after fic where the overpowered M.C. gets fifteen different girls (Naruto, I'm talking to you). It's getting really annoying.**

**Because, really, the DxD world is extremely dark if you take all the perverse humor from it, and therefore, extraordinarily interesting. Like, seriously, Peerages are essentially a form of feudalism (and look how well that turned out for the serfs), and can easily lead to nasty things such as sexual exploitation, murder, conspiracy, oppression, etc. Not to mention the Church.**

**Kudos to Beyond the Outer Gate Lies... by gabrielblessing and A Demon Among Devils by The Crimson Lord, because they inspired me to write this.**

**The dream sequence was heavily inspired by the ED for Fate/stay night UBW Season 2 and Glimpses by Angry Santo. On a quick, completely unrelated note to this fic, I am in LOVE with the new OP for Fate/stay night UBW Season 2. There's just something about it that makes it really cool.**

**Back on track, expect a non-Issei centric piece of fiction.**

**That's all for now. Please Review if you can! I can always use some tips and/or corrections, as I'm not well-versed in the DxD universe.**


	2. The Sword Unsheathed

**AN: Hey guys! Sorry for the month-long wait. I was in the middle of AP testing, and I had some pretty tough ones. This chapter is shorter primarily for that reason.**

**I was really blown away by the response on this fic, and, coupled with some interesting ideas that have been floating around in my head, ****Steel Savior**** will probably be my main focus for a while. Alongside with Chasing Dawn, a new Toaru Majutusu Index crossover, and Atlas, an upcoming Oregairu fic.**

**A quick note on Embers, my other fic: I'm going to really really get down and revise the entire thing. Chapter 3 for me was already a gnarly son of a gun for me to get through, and to me was really uninspiring. Not to mention some critical faults helpfully pointed by the reviewer Fierdin have made me want to edit the entire damn story.**

**Its actually getting frustrating, but I'm working on it. Expect a few months' delay before the next update.**

**Yes, I know some characters are OOC. But really, I'm trying to take the exaggerated, light-hearted, comic humor nearly completely from the DxD universe, and replace it with cold realism. Some of you have expressed doubt that the DxD universe and its constituents, such as the Church or the Devils and even Heaven can be portrayed as being dark in the first place, but I'm going to try to do so realistically.**

**I'll try not to go GRIMDERP, but I'm counting on you guys to tell me that!**

**EDIT 5-17-2015: Mixed up Bakuya and Kanshou. Fixed Asia's name. Elaborated on her whereabouts. Spelling corrections.**

**WARNING: Strong language and adult situations (e.g. excessive blood and gore and non-graphic/implied sexual intercourse) is/will be prevalent throughout this story. Possible triggers, such as to sexual assault, will also be present. Read at your own risk. Will diverge from canon from both universes on multiple points.**

**DISCLAIMER: ****The Fate/Stay Night Franchise belongs exclusively to Type-Moon, while the Highschool DxD Franchise belongs exclusively to Ichiei Ishibumi and Miyama-Zero. I do not own any elements from either franchise that have been incorporated in my fanfiction.**

* * *

_Although I know it's unfair, I reveal myself one mask at a time."_

_-Stephen Dunn_

**STEEL SAVIOR**

Chapter 2: The Sword Unsheathed

He was a mystery, she thought to herself on the first day she met him. A boy, no, a _man_, who somehow carried an impossibility of contradictions with him.

A hard, lined face with soft amber eyes. A lover's touch with the calloused hand of a warrior. An unassuming, plain air with a sharp, calculating mind. An excellent sense of compassion and morals with an ambitious, dangerous, intrinsic belief hidden far beneath.

Exactly everything about him was an enigma, a riddle that could not easily be solved.

And she detested riddles with a passion.

For her, cold logic and dispassionate rationality had always been her trump card. Impersonal detachment from the world allowed her to escape her arranged marriage, enabled her to lead her Peerage effectively, and uphold her position as the heir to the Sitri clan.

A king, her father had told her when she was still young, when she was still innocent and happy, ignorant of the world around her, must always act alone. And in acting alone, accepting everything alone.

Back then, she did not know the meaning of his cryptic words, merely smiling up at his grave face and nodding affirmatively before asking her father to play with her.

Now, her father's words rung like a bell in her mind, not simply advice from a father to his daughter, but a way of life as the primary successor of the Sitri family.

For any success, something had to be sacrificed. For any gain to be made, something had to be lost. For any victory, something had to perish.

The Law of Equivalent Exchange, her father had called it.

When the duties as the Sitri heiress fell upon her, she took it without complaint, shedding her brief childhood in favor of the authoritarian persona demanded of her. When she became the Student Council President, she broke her friendships in favor of professional relationships from which order could be better maintained. When she became the King of her Peerage, she sacrificed her emotions in favor of the icy grasp of rationality that befitted a true king.

"The Ice Queen," many called her behind her back, despite her lacking her sister's proficiency in winter magic. "The Snow Princess of Kuoh" and "Kuoh's Frigid Ace."

Sometimes, hearing such names stung lightly, and, on the rare occasion she felt sentimental, she would flip through her old photobooks, reminiscing of happier days when she still was a child.

But most of the time she remembered who she was, and what she represented.

She was a creature of the never-ending expanse of water, wielder of the indomitable power that could cut through all obstacles in its path, from walls of granite to towers of iron. Calm, cool, and collected, she was always right, and would always succeed, no matter how momentous a task. Hailed as one of the greatest geniuses of her current generation, she was venerated and honored wherever she went, serving as a role model for her underclassmen and a extraordinarily talented pupil and successor to her elders.

She was Sitri Sona, the sole heiress of the powerful Sitri Clan of the Ars Goetia, one of the 72 Pillars of the original Devil Families.

There was a secret lying within Emiya Shirou, and she would be damned if she wouldn't be the first to uncover it.

Unfortunately, she thought to herself as she looked at the strange red and silver-haired man in front of her, it seemed as if Gremory Rias had beat her to it.

* * *

Devils, they called themselves.

He stood in the Student Council Room, an aloof and emotionless mask locked on his face, towering far above all the others, with the notable exception of Tsubaki Shinra, in the room.

Many familiar, and and many more unfamiliar faces were scattered throughout the room, each with a wide range of expression on their faces. Most of them seemed to be cautious and wary, others merely bored, and a few even outright hostile.

Everyone except Issei, that is, who wore a brilliant grin that was so wide he thought it threatened to split the pervert's face apart.

They were also all members of the Occult Research Club and the Student Council, he thought to himself, amused.

He frankly wasn't surprised. The constant smell of an enormous variety of elements, each as potent as some of the more powerful Mysteries back in _his_ world, permeated the entirety of both the Student Council Room and the Occult Research Club Room thoroughly.

Unfortunately, he could already sense the invisible forms of dangerous...tools, for lack of a better word, that seemed to lie on the next plane of existence, each of which he felt could easily be used as a weapon.

He didn't blame their tension.

He presumed he was somewhat of a intimidating sight, with his white body armor and, restrained although its power was, the potent blue holy shroud wrapped about him. His twin blades of white and black were sheathed on his back, yet remained in easy reach of his hands, their protective intent of him suffusing aggressively throughout the cramped room.

It probably would have been even more impressive sight if only the blonde girl he head saved - Argento Asia, she had introduced herself as - hadn't had her head buried in his side, arms wrapped around his waist, sobbing so violently that her tears had thoroughly soaked through his armor.

The priestess had clung onto him immediately after she had awoken, and had adamantly refused to let go since, despite his best efforts.

Second after second ticked by. Minute after minute trickled away. Hour after hour passed.

She had been attached to his side ever since, nearly half a day in total, and as he did not have the heart to push her off of him, he let her stay.

Savior, she had called him.

It was, if anything, a nice sounding name.

"Emiya-san, can you _please_ pay attention?" Sona's voice sharply cut past the hazy nebula that enshrouded his mind. "I was just asking you a question."

"Sorry, kaichou." He bowed his head in obligatory deference, ignoring the thick tension in the air. "My concentration slipped for a moment. What were you asking?"

She rubbed her forehead in a seemingly frustrated gesture, sighing. "One more time, Emiya-san. Who are you? Or rather, _what_ are you?"

What was he?

Instantly, a thousand answers crossed his mind, each discarded in favor of the next.

What could he say? He could quite easily called anything but anyone, so variegated and diverse were his activities. Curing children of sporadic Ebola outbreaks one moment and butchering droves of Boko Haram the next. Evacuating Romanian orphans from their prisons, and assassinating their captors merely hours later. A ruthless mundane soldier in one world, and an equally ruthless practitioner of Magecraft in another.

An answer finally came to mind, perhaps the simplest yet vaguest possible, and one that would make Rin huff in annoyance.

"A magician."

Sona's eyebrows rose in incredulity. "A mere magician would not be able to defeat four Fallen Angels without so much suffering a scratch."

"A powerful magician, then," he said placatingly, an amused smile crossing his face at the annoyed huff Sona gave out. "Powerful and talented."

"Someone's confident," she shot back, and he smiled.

She was like Rin in that respect. Sarcastic and trigger-happy with insults, with a sharp tongue and wit to those she deemed worthy.

"Not confident. Merely self-assured." He found himself enjoying their banter, and slowly, he felt the mood in the room become lighter, the tension relenting ever so slightly.

Of course, it wasn't to last.

"A smarmy Exorcist we have here, I suppose?" a voice asked, tense and somewhat hostile, immediately restoring the sense of unease that had permeated throughout the room moments before. "An agent of the Church, come to do their bidding like a _dog_ would?"

The voice belonged to Yuuto Kiba, better known as the "Prince of Kuoh." The ever-present smile that graced his face was now replaced by a hostile glower, and the blonde's eyebrows furrowed into a hateful, baleful glare that was so very unlike him.

He had never hard such vehemence from the Prince before, and he wondered what experiences had instilled such a deep hatred of the Church within the other boy.

Nevertheless, he had to answer.

"Do you think the Church hire a magician, a practitioner of the pagan arts?" He asked lightly, the casual tone that he had unconsciously picked up from Rin making his statement bitingly mocking, yet subtle all the same. "In case you do not know, the Christian faith has always, until recent times, taken an intolerant stance upon other faiths and practices that do not overlap with their own."

Inwardly, he smiled. That had been somewhat of a lie. He had worked alongside Ciel for many years, and their partnership had always been full of camaraderie and genuine respect. Their partnership had been so fruitful that he was eventually given the title of an Honorary Executor and gifted with a valuable Holy Shroud.

The first one she had offered him had been red, however, he remembered with a grimace. As red as _his_ shroud had been, almost as if it had been washed in the blood of thousands of innocent and guilty parties alike.

Even though many years had passed since the War, the words of his counterpart still haunted him to the present, despite the fact that they had both come to the same resolution.

A demonic blade suddenly warped into Kiba's hand, and a second later, he found the tip of the sword at his throat, tickling his skin.

To an onlooker, it would have been an impressive feat, but to his experienced eyes, it was amateurish in nearly all senses.

The speed of formation was slow and cumbersome, the swing of the other boy's arm inefficient and clumsy, relying on the seemingly superior physiology of the devils, and his technique mediocre at best.

He could've easily blocked such a slow and telegraphed movement, but he chose not to. It would've most likely been an excuse for the room to break out into an all-out brawl, and nothing but spilt blood could be gained from such a confrontation.

"Don't mock me!" the blonde boy snarled. "No other Factions wear the Holy Shrouds! Tell me, who are you, and what is your purpose here? Tell me NOW!"

A tense silence fell over the room, and he could already see the other devils stiffen, readying their so-called "Sacred Gears" and magic in preparation for a full-on, to-the-death fight.

He sighed, holding out his right hand non-threateningly.

Perhaps a demonstration would do?

"If I may?" he asked Sona, and the raven-haired beauty nodded curtly, giving her tacit approval.

Deep within the recesses of his mind, a nameless sword was recalled, its blueprint rapidly processed and activated within a hundredth of a second. The blade was nigh-instantaneously formed in his hand a moment later, its edges tinged with dark, malicious wisps of Prana warping off the length of the sword in malignant waves.

A high-level Mystic Code, he recalled. Infused with demonic energy from the brutal sacrifices of hundreds of peasants in the Andes.

He remembered the bodies clearly. Their limp, dried corpses, hearts torn out, eyes harvested, tongues cut, their skin ripped off their bodies. Desiccated bodies thrown in massive heaps, slaughtered and methodically cut apart as if they were merely fodder. It had been one of his first missions from Clock Tower, and while Rin had thrown up immediately, spilling her freshly-eaten lunch onto the muddy ground, he merely stood there, a silent, trembling rage enveloping his the entirety of his senses.

When he finally confronted the Apostle herself, he had impaled her with an assortment of four dozen holy blades. He purposefully made them weak enough so that she remained alive, albeit in agonizing pain.

Her screams had rung continually throughout the night for hours until they were finally silenced, the sound of metal cleaving through flesh replacing the horrid screeches.

The villagers had heard the pained shrieks that pierced the night air, and when he returned with the dried blood covering his clothing, he had received yet another nickname.

El Cazador de Pesadillas. The Hunter of Nightmares.

Fondly, he swung the blade in intricate patterns, admiring the beauty of its craftsmanship while detesting it for its previous owner's actions.

"Sword Birth?" Kiba breathed. "No, but it cannot be..."

The room turned and stared at him, as if waiting for an explanation.

He shook his head disappointedly. This was not turning out well whatsoever.

"I have the ability to...use magical artifacts," he said slowly. "Whether they are of holy or demonic power, it matters not. That is my skill as a magician."

An exasperated, almost presumptuous sigh entered his ears, and briefly, slight annoyance flared within him.

He was being judged, as usual.

"Emiya-san," Sona pushed up her glasses, light somehow glinting off their reflective surface. He idly wondered how she managed to pull it off so casually. "What you just performed was a Sacred Gear known as Sword Birth, as Kiba just mentioned. Sacred Gears cannot have more than one alignment. What you are suggesting is a technical impossibility."

He shook his head firmly. "It is not a Sacred Gear. That I am sure of."

She glared arrogantly, and he had to avoid rolling his eyes. "Emiya-san, I underst-"

"Sona." The soft voice of Rias Gremory floated over Sona's, and the black-haired devil glared momentarily at the President of the Occult Research Club, before nodding curtly. "Thank you."

The thanks was empty. Everyone in the room could feel the resentment that emanated from Sona, only adding to the stifling, sweaty tension in the room.

"Emiya-san?" The soft voice came over him, almost hypnotizing in effect, but he shook it off with ease, barely paying attention to it.

He nodded once, indicating his approval, and she spoke.

"Are you certain that your 'magic' isn't simply the unconscious channeling of your Sacred Gear? After all, there are many humans born with Sacred Gears outside of institutions such as the Church. You may simply be one of these so-called 'unclaimed' Sacred Gear users."

It most definitely wasn't, but to explain was to reveal his secrets, and obviously, that was to be avoided.

Then how to answer?

He thought for a moment. "This...Sword Birth that you mentioned before. What exact abilities does that Sacred Gear entail?"

"The ability to create and store swords with a demonic alignment," Kiba replied, eyes flicking rapidly about him, almost appraisingly.

The demonic blade dissipated into red motes of light, scattering in the air before disappearing almost reluctantly.

Once more, he delved into his internal armory, pulling out another blade, this one of holy make, and carrying fond memory.

A moment later, and one of Ciel's seemingly limitless Black Keys lay on his palm, its blade reverberating violently, white-hot, as it sought to destroy the heretical beings it felt in its presence.

It seemed that even across worlds, Black Keys were still Black Keys, and still looked to fulfill their purpose as weapons to destroy the blasphemous and bring salvation to the believers.

Hypocritically dogmatic. The Church had killed as many of the innocent as heretics their own, and slaughtered hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people in their pursuit of what they viewed as a better future. All the while working alongside the Association and Atlas to reach the Root.

He could only hope that this world's version of the Church was more benevolent, but somehow, he already knew it was a false hope.

Slowly, he glanced at the awe-struck looks about him, hiding the slight displeasure of having his hand revealed so early.

"Do you believe me now?" he asked softly, yet his message carried throughout the silent room.

A soft voice shattered the awed silence.

"Emiya-san..."

His eyes narrowed at Sona's inquisitive, uplifted tone, all traces of previous annoyance forgotten, and he moved to answer before she asked.

"Would you-"

"No." he said with hard tone. "I will not join your Peerage. I appreciate the offer, but my word is final. And no," he turned to Rias. "I will not join yours either."

The two devils looked at him sheepishly.

"If I may ask why?" Sona spoke quietly.

"You do realize that my ability to use holy artifacts would be severely restricted should I become a devil," he pointed out. "That would be a significant loss in investment on your part should I join either of your Peerages."

Violet eyes narrowed speculatively, staring obtrusively at him, before their owner countered. "That is a problem that I should concern myself with, not you. What I am asking you is, why do _you_ not want to join my Peerage?"

He sighed.

He hadn't wanted to give a detailed explanation, but under the scrutiny of seventeen-odd armed devils, he had little choice.

"This Peerage system is far too reminiscent of medieval society with its feudal system for my liking." He ignored the offended look on the two Kings' faces. "The pieces seem to be designed as so that the members of the Peerages would be enslaved under the will of their King and forced to their bidding, no matter how evil the act. Simply put, I view the Peerage system as merely eternal slavery in exchange for a new chance at life."

"But-!"

He held up a hand. "I understand that both of you treat your, for lack of a better term, _subjects_ justly and fairly, but there are far too many ways to abuse this. For example," he pointed at Issei. "If Hyoudou-kouhai were to become a King of his peerage, it would be highly likely that sexual exploitation and senseless, depraved abuse would be commonplace within it." He ignored Issei's heated protests. "In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if such rampant, barbarian depravity is already present."

Both Kings winced.

He narrowed his eyes. "It is, isn't it?"

Neither party spoke, and it was only many seconds later that one of them deigned a response.

"There are sporadic cases," Sona confessed. "However!" she hastily tacked on. "Such unsavory acts are few and far between, and are dealt with harshly and punitively. I promise..." she glanced at Rias, who nodded, before continuing. "_We_ promise that if you join either of our Peerages, we will treat you with the respect and honor that you deserve."

He found himself nodding.

They undoubtedly would. Neither Sona nor Rias were genuinely evil devils - he could tell that much - but rather almost human-like entities that had a profound moral compass and sense of personal ideals.

In fact, he considered them to be good people. He considered the entirety of both their Peerages to be good people. He had always believed in the best in all, whether human or Magus, Apostle or Phantasmal Beast, Angel or Devil, although he remained at all times ready to cut them down.

But regardless, he would not accept. Humanity had always been one of his most defining traits, and without it, not only would he lose his sense of purpose, but he would never reach Avalon, never reach _her_ and all the others that waited faithfully for him on the other side.

He sighed wearily. "As generous as your offers are, and as virtuous as well as upstanding people I know you two to be, I simply cannot accept this offer."

The mutterings in the room grew louder, until they were silenced by a wave from a pale, deceptively delicate hand.

"Then why not?" Rias challenged. "Why can't you join either of our Peerages? What's so important that prevents you from becoming a devil?"

He smiled sadly, and for a moment, he did not stand in a club room surrounded by devils, but knelt on a hill of swords, with the corpse of a young girl in his arms, facing an impostor.

"I made a promise."

* * *

He first heard the dank clang of steel knocking against the granite beneath his own feet.

Then came the soft lilt of a tattered metal cloak as is whistled through the cold air. Then the creaking of metal joints as steel moved past steel.

He sighed. It wasn't often _it _manifested itself directly into the physical plane.

Silently, he turned to face the figure that had stopped behind him, left only to wonder the catalyst for his presence.

"My lord."

A black helm, formed gracelessly from the bent blades of swords, crowned a massive, hulking body. Its armor was made from the faces of blades, woven together with the edges of daggers and the hilts of swords. Its flesh was similarly formed simply an amorphous mesh of blades, each weapon chaotically placed in a seemingly random pattern that somehow gave form to a beast. An aura of pure hate, pure wrath, emanated clearly from its body, formed by the coagulation and concentration of demonic-aligned weapons into a single, forged body. Black tendrils of Prana floated almost lazily about its suit of crudely formed plate, wisps of magical energy shooting through the innumerable minute gaps within the armor and body that lay beneath.

Sheathed at its side was a blade that he had grown to dislike, if only for its origins.

Clarent.

The blade used by the traitor Mordred to mortally wound Arturia at the battle of Camlann. Filled with rage, resentment, an all-consuming hate for his lover, it was once a sword of peace, the literal manifestation of the utopia that both he and she, and thousands of other heroes, pursued without end.

It was always the hope of the people that one day Arturia could forever sheathe Excalibur, a sword of war, and instead take up Clarent instead, a peaceful blade that could represent the ascension of Britain into a peaceful age of splendor and cultural achievement.

Unlike Excalibur, which had remained at her side at all times, Clarent hung conspicuously in the throne room, a constant reminder of the dream that Arturia and her Knights of the Round Table searched, fought, and bled for.

Clarent had served throughout Arturia's reign as a knighting sword and other peaceful ceremonies, and its virgin blade remained untouched with the unholy elixir of blood.

Until Mordred stole it.

That day, on the very hill of Camlann, it was stained and corrupted forever, far beyond cleansing. The blade that was never meant to draw blood witnessed the worst betrayal possible, turned against its Master, who had forged it in hope of peace, and used to not only mortally wound her but destroy the chance of her beautiful ideal ever being realized.

Now it lay in his armory, a twisted, perverted vestige of its former glory. It pained him to look at it, and the few times he had forced himself to use it, it had made him physically sick.

But it could only simply be attributed to his low ranked luck that it had appeared, sheathed crudely on the side of the dark figure that knelt before him merely weeks before.

He spoke.

"I did not call for you, Wrath."

"No, you did not." it affirmed, still kneeling.

A heavy silence fell between them, and for a few minutes, neither spoke.

The figure broke it first, his metallic voice grating almost painfully. "I came to request something of you."

Interest piqued him, and a curt order slipped from his lips. "Continue."

The figure appeared to stumble over its words, hesitant. "I know not how."

"Then do try."

The curt, almost flippant answer quickly restored the silence, more oppressive than it was before.

It was another minute before it responded.

"My lord, we feel that you are improperly handling the battles that you fight. Everything from your reckless swordplay to your insistence on fighting alone. You are pushing yourself far beyond your limits, and it is not healthy."

An amused smile crossed his lips. "And you elected to tell me, Wrath? Why, I didn't know you cared."

"Of course not," it vehemently denied, but both knew he came of his own volition. "I was chosen by the other five to. I am merely performing my duty."

"If you say so." He smirked, and silence fell between them, not awkward, but not comfortable either.

The sun shone a brilliant vermilion in the darkening sky, was if it were an ominous portent of the future. Idly, he wondered what would come next.

He could only hope it would not be as stained as the landscape before him, bathed in a vivid red that reminded him all too much of blood.

"What of the girl? And the other?" it asked. "What will you do with them?"

He grimaced. He had sent Asia back to his small apartment, which was now cramped due to the sudden influx of new residents. Three people, two of them freeloaders, would be difficult to feed and clothe, not to mention the exorbitant increase in the water bill that would undoubtedly follow.

How he would find the funds to support them, he did not know how, but he nevertheless resolved to help them.

It was, after all, what he did. To help all people, former enemies or not, in any way he could.

The figure suddenly sneered, breaking him out of his reverie. "Surely you aren't thinking of keeping them around, my lord. One of them tried to kill you, and the other clings to you like a pathetic brat would a safety blanket."

He deftly changed the subject, unwilling to answer his subject's accusation.

"You have not stated your request."

He felt the glare his vassal gave him, before it obliged almost sulkily, its low, menacing voice rasping from deep within its metallic body.

"Call for us, my lord."

The blunt statement did not come unexpected. For weeks he had felt their boredom, their annoyance, and their worry, and had anticipated their inevitable request.

But such emotions did not explain their willingness to serve. After all, in essence that's all they were: Manifestation of emotion and ideals, brought to life by his will, resurrected by the strength of his soul and the weakness of Gaia.

"Why?" he asked.

The figure was still knelt, bending subserviently beneath his will, but its voice was resolute, unyielding in its proposition.

"You called for us from the hill, my lord. Do not forget that. We have sworn to be your sword, your shield, in times of peace, and times of war. You are our liege, we, your vassals. Why do you not use us like you would our individual constituents? Why do you not lead us like the king of swords that you are?"

"There is no use for any of you in times of peace," he shot back. "And war is merely one of the many paths that may lie ahead of us in the future. What use is there for you?"

"Even the best of blades will dull with the passage of time," it said reproachfully. "You, of all people, should know that best." It nodded towards the magnificent sight that beheld them. "Besides, war is coming. It is even clearly written in the light of that dying sun. Are you so selfish to keep the decoctions of blood and fire to yourself?"

He grimaced, and once more silence fell between them, but this time, it was not merely neutral, but rather stifling and uncomfortable, despondent and heavy.

The blood red sun. It was both a symbol of Japan and the sign of bloody chaos, a prophecy bathed in the fires of battle and the forge of anarchy.

He had never taken such natural occurrences as prophecy. The red sun was caused, as determined by scientists years before, by the greater penetrating power of red-tinted photons through the atmosphere due to their longer wavelength, and the subsequent intensification of their effect near sunset. He had never believed otherwise.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder what was to come. The revelation of an entire myth system based in the twenty-first century, with Angels, Fallen, and Devils running amuck throughout the world, was disconcerting at the very least, and given the tensions he had inferred between the Devils and the Church, war seemed to be on the verge of breaking out.

The spilling of blood, as he had proved merely a day before, really was to be inevitable, despite for his wishes otherwise.

"I shall see," he replied, after a long moment of thought. He averted his eyes from the figure that knelt before him and towards the strangely dull rays of sunset that lay scattered across the horizon like fresh dew upon the tips of withered grass.

Despite his efforts, he still felt the dark smile engraved on his servant's face, and the twisted voice of metal crept into his ear insidiously, like an unwanted thought.

"You always do, don't you, my lord? But that is not what matters. The real question is, what _do_ you see?"

He turned away fully, and the heavy presence dissipated, leaving only him to be bathed by the soft warmth of the red sun.

* * *

The first to fall was Dohaneesk.

There was no warning, no sign of imminent attack, no trace of movement. No indication that a fight was even supposed to begin.

The man simply disappeared in a gust of wind moments before Raynare's spear hit him, the weapon sinking effortlessly shaft-deep into the stone floor.

A gurgle startled them out of the reverie, and they could only watch in utter shock as Dohaneesk coughed out blotches of crimson blood, a blade as black as the night driven sickeningly through his chest.

Not a second later, another blade, as white as pure virgin snow, swished almost silently through the air, gruesomely decapitating the male Fallen, a caricatured expression of surprise still frozen on his face.

When it emerged from the other side of Dohaneesk's neck, it was no longer untouched, but painted a vivid red, the new coat of paint dripping almost hungrily from its edge.

A shower of gore fell over them, and the light spray of blood on their faces finally spurred them into action, each desperately scrambling away from the man as he approached them at a speed unmatched even by the elite lightning corps of Angels.

She was not fast enough.

A searing, hot pain flashed across her back and alongside her wings, eliciting a pained cry from her lips.

Almost disdainfully, she saw the man in blue and white backhand her, and she vaguely felt the shattering of her bones as her limp body smashed heavily into the ground.

Her vision blackened from the pain.

"MITTELT!" she heard Raynare cry out faintly.

She smiled sadly. It was to no avail. Already she could see the man descending from the Heavens as if he were a vengeful Archangel, twin blades raised high in preparation to deliver his merciless judgement upon her.

Regret.

Regret for all she had done, all the evil she had committed, all the actions she had taken, all the things she wished she could do, wished she could have done.

That was perhaps all she had left, in the end. Just the memories of her broken, fractured dreams, trod on upon the uncaring machinations of others.

A bitter tear trickled down her cheek, and, ignoring the burning, fiery pain that spread across her body, she closed her eyes, resigned to her bloody fate.

"BASTARD!"

Her eyes flickered open briefly, fighting against the darkness that encroached upon her vision.

Another tear slipped down her face, but it was not of happiness, but rather of despair once more.

Kalawarner stood in front of her protectively, twin spears clutched tightly in her hands, defiantly facing the blue and white clad man.

"Run..." she whispered in a croaking voice, ignoring the itch of her dry throat. "Please run Kalawarner. You don't stand a chance."

She felt Kalawarner smile grimly, and the other Fallen replied. "Not with you still here, Mittelt. I'll stay with you until the very end. Besides, they didn't call me the Mistress of the Wind for no reason."

"The Mistress of the Wind. " When Kalawarner had still been an Angel, serving under the forces of Michael, she had been famed for her skills in dual-spearsmanship, so excelling in the art that she was able to rival even the Great Archangels in terms of ability alone.

But even she stood no chance against the man in front of them. She and the man that stood in front of her knew that, but Kalawarner herself did not seem worried, only enraged and vengeful.

Why? Could she not see?

This man was something _else_.

There was simply an unknown element to the man, something that she could not discern entirely, that made him so deadly, and made their fight so drastically one-sided. His stance was almost informal, without the set, pretentious form favored by most East Asian sword-styles, nor the cautious, forward stance of Western swordsmanship. It was devoid of any sort of pride, the sole trace emotion within the entirety of his form lying in the beautiful, symmetrical weapons that were clasped in each hand.

His blades were of master craftsmanship, at least as perfect if not more so than then the weapons of Heaven themselves. Stained with dark blood they were, they were nevertheless beautiful, a sense of harmony not in war but rather in companionship exuded from merely staring at them.

Yet for all such beauty, they could easily slice through flesh and bone as if it were merely butter, cutting down threats to their wielder in a malevolent, vicious manner that was so unlike the almost peaceful, tranquil aura they gave off.

A white cloth of some unknown make covered his torso and legs, tapering away at two steel boots. Wrapped around him like an overcoat was a powerful Holy Shroud, a calming azure cloth that was sprayed lightly with recently-spilled blood.

Was he an Exorcist? An agent of Heaven? A member of the Church? What was he that made them seem so weak?

She pondered as the man and Kalawarner clashed, each idea thrown out for a more ludicrous one.

She had just thought of the idea that the man was magician ally of justice hired by humanity when a shrill cry of pain broke her out of her dazed reverie. Fighting the hazy nebula that threatened to overcome her vision, she turned her head in time to see the man's white blade carve a deep furrow in Kalawarner's arm, sending a spray of blood through the air.

Briefly, she thought to help her fellow Fallen, and tried to move her legs.

Tried to.

Angrily, she looked down at her legs, screaming silently for them to move so she could help her comrade. Help Kalawarner, who had found her crying in the lifeless stone village onto which she was cast away from Heaven. Who had clothed and bathed her, despite her wounds. Who had given her shelter and a place to belong. Who had forged a friendship that saved her. Who had shielded her in her time of need.

She wished she hadn't looked.

Instead of the long, smooth, yet muscles legs that graced all Angels, former or not, there was merely a mess of flesh and blood. Shards of bone poked out through a landscape of ripped muscle, disfigured ivory towers scattered across a red sea. Her porcelain skin was now nonexistent, replaced by uneven hills of upturned nerve endings and dislodged tendons. Her right leg was almost completely torn off at the kneecap, only a thin strip of flesh attaching it to her thigh. Her left wasn't in a much better state, instead twisted in a sickeningly odd fashion, a sharp shard of her shin extending from her broken skin like a monolith of white marble speckled with splotches of red paint.

She retched.

It was then she realized the enormity of the situation, the rage that arose from the helplessness of her position, that roused her normally cathartic psyche into a state of hapless fury.

But what could she do?

She could only watch helplessly as one of Kalawarner's spears shattered into a thousand motes of yellow light, only gaze on the man's blades flew faster and faster, drawing dozens upon dozens of light, yet debilitating wounds.

Nerves were sliced. Vital capillaries bled. Muscles severed.

Second after second passed, and slowly, Kalawarner's defense began to collapse in upon itself. Gashes becoming larger and larger, blood flowing freely as if they were torrid streams joining into mighty rivers of red.

Only the ringing clash of blades and the grating clang of metal upon metal could be heard, until, placed under repeated, intense stress, Kalawarner's final light spear groaned, before it too gave way to the ungodly force of the man's arms.

Kalawarner barely had time to scream before the man's swords swung forward in a final, eerie arc towards her torso.

The crunch of blade penetrating flesh, organ, and bone silenced the shrill cry of desperation.

Silence fell over the church, and, after a brief pause, the blades were suddenly, and violently, retracted, sending a shower of blood and gore flying through the air, bathing the surroundings in it.

A red Communion was invoked in the church, blood and flesh imbibed by those in the presence of the violent sacrifice.

The man's steel boot smashed into Kalawarner's chest a moment later, sending the half-dead Fallen soaring almost comically through the air, crumpling in a broken form as she slumped against the massive stone wall that lay opposite of her.

For a moment, she thought the other Fallen had died, and the gut-wrenching fear of loneliness rose up in her stomach.

However, to her relief, a small, ragged cough erupted from her comrade's mouth, spilling a mixture of blood and mucus onto the ground. Despite the pathetic, lowly state of her comrade, a smile erupted on her face, and the tiny spark of hope within her flared brightly.

But her relief turned into horror and the vestiges of hope were extinguished brutally as the sound of steel on stone resonated throughout the church.

_Clack. _

_Clack. _

_Clack_.

She saw Kalawarner lift her head at the sound of the metal boots coming closer and closer, and for the first time, saw true fear in her fellow Fallen's dark eyes.

The man stopped in front of the Fallen, staring at her broken form, his steel boots stained red with the blood that flowed from her body. In a soft voice, almost as if he were pained, he asked a single question, coalescing in her ear like the cursed snake of the Garden.

"Are you afraid?"

Kalawarner's last pained, desperate screams ripped through the air, resonating throughout the church and echoing off the walls.

Blades of white and black glinted in the fading light, and she averted her eyes from the scene, covering her ears in a vain attempt to block out the sickening sound of metal splitting flesh.

She sighed, staring at the rays of the setting sun that flashed through the single remaining, unbroken, stained glass window, scattering color all over the church as if each orb were precious gems.

If anything, it was a beautiful day to die.

* * *

They too, like he, had bodies of blades.

It was by mere chance that he had formed them. Beings composed wholly of the weapons in his armory, emerging from the shadows of the hill of swords, kneeling before him.

Sword sentience, the ability of sword to almost feel or perceive, coupled with Gaia's weakened influence, seemed to have manifested them onto the planet. Without the constant degradation of the world, blades of similar alignment began to fuse together, blade after blade layering itself one over another to form their bodies, their personalities combining to form an idea to which they were all common.

Justice versus Wrath.

Discipline versus Lust.

Humility versus Envy.

Three virtues pitted against three vices.

Three entities of light and three entities of dark.

Three Angelic ideals clashing with three Demonic ones, each pair two sides of the very same coin.

Their summoning should have been an impossibility. Literal contradictions to the laws of reality itself. Something not alive could not become alive. Something that was inanimate could not become animate. Something that could not think could not become cognizant. Something that was forged by the hand of man could not become consciously sentient.

Yet it happened, somehow. For swords were forged with purpose, and when the blade arose to fame within the annals of history, they became a representation of that purpose.

Blades created for the pursuit of Justice. Of Revenge. Of Peace. Of War. Of Simplicity. Of Ornateness.

When placed together, swords brought together by the same purpose, by the same idea for which they were built, their power began to multiply.

Keris Mpu Gandring fused with Tyrfing. Crocea Mors with Tizona. Sword upon spear upon axe upon halberd. Arrow upon dagger upon shield upon dirk. Metal meshed, coagulated, bonded, and molded.

Built upon another, they became the epitome of the idea they were built for, their entire personalities warped together to form a cohesive unit.

All they knew was themselves. Justice knew none else than Justice, Wrath none other than Wrath. Discipline nothing but Discipline, Lust none but Lust. Humility none but Humility, Envy naught but Envy.

It was almost overpowering to a human, with the potency of the emotions they could induce. Wrath cast a domineering hatred upon his mind like a dark cloud, Discipline an intolerant attitude to the slightest faux pás, Lust powerful feelings of attraction and desire.

But to him, it was nothing. He had a will of steel, unbending to everyone and everything, despite the potency of his sentiments, and enclosed the six into an insurmountable cage from which he could focus their power and amplify their intensity.

He was not a slave to emotion, nor was he prey to the passions and fanciful flights that defined normal men. He was something greater than such, for his body, while still human, was made out of blades.

So when he called for them from the shadows of the hill of swords, they bowed, subservient to his iron will.

* * *

White and blue exploded into existence, tendrils of energy wrapping about his body, caressing him like a lover.

Compound, carbon-based body armor, as pure and brilliant freshly-fallen snow, fused onto his torso, spiraling down to cover his legs, burnished white steel boots forming from Prana onto his feet. A blue Holy Shroud wound itself around his shoulders and back, flowing down his body as if it were an overcoat.

At the same time, two blades force themselves out of his inner world and into the realm of existence, their edges gleaming dangerously in the setting sun.

Kanshou and Bakuya. Two blades, forged by Gan Jiang and Mo Ye, empowered by their sacrifice in the flames of the forge, their names ascending into legend.

His Prana flowed through them instantly after they were formed, Reinforcing each blade to highest level that could be attained. The keen edge became even keener, the bonds between the metal even stronger, the cores becoming even stiffer.

And then he _moved_.

The Prana gathered in his legs suddenly discharged completely, propelling him forward at an obscene speed.

In under half a second, he reached his first enemy, the bearded male Fallen who floated, wholly unaware of his presence, ten feet in the air.

He shook his head sadly. The man wouldn't even have time to contemplate his own mortality.

Kanshou sung as it whipped through the air, entering the man's back with a sickening crunch, and exiting out the man's chest, its black blade dripping with dark crimson liquid.

A soft gurgle escaped the man's throat, slight speckles of blood falling gracelessly from his mouth, before he swung Bakuya, its pure white blade stained a brilliant, vivid red under the glowing light as it passed through the hapless man's neck.

When it pulled free, the decapitated head fell almost anticlimatically, the body collapsing like a puppet with cut strings with a dull, sickening thump.

A few moments later, the corpse exploded into feathers, nothing remaining except a cloud of floating black, and the flowing blood that literally bathed the floor in red.

The twin swords of black and white spun around in his hand as he shifted to a new position, poising himself to leap at the next target, a young blonde girl that seemed not a day older than twelve.

She, too, seemed unaware of his actions, merely staring in blank shock at the mass of feathers that slowly floated aimlessly through the air.

He ignored the guilt that ate at him.

It was one thing to die in horrid pain, gazing at the face of an enemy as he stabbed you through the chest. It was one thing to fall from an unsurvivable height, staring at the sky far above as you contemplated your own mortality.

But to not be even aware of death as it approached you, not even given the chance to think before your life was ended in a haze of pain and a spray of blood...

That was the worst fate of them all.

"MITTELT!" The panicked voice of the first Fallen pierced the air sharply, and he tsked lightly as his target threw herself to the side sharply in a desperate attempt to avoid the curved path of his blades.

She was too late.

But her efforts were not in vain. Instead of his blades connecting with the flesh of her neck, which would have killed her instantly, they merely severed the thick cords of muscle that formed the base of her dark black wings.

An inhuman scream rung through the air, resonating the very air around him, but he paid it no mind.

Grimly, he turned in midair, manipulating the air currents around him to propel him forward once more. The blonde Fallen faced him, a twisted, pained expression warping her child-like face.

Viciously, he backhanded her, trickles of blood erupting like geysers as her nose broke onto his armor. The girl literally _flew_ into the ground, colliding with the floor with such force that a small cloud of debris was thrown up into the air, obscuring the scene for a moment.

This time, there was no scream.

He landed effortlessly onto the floor a moment later, his eyes immediately focusing on the broken, barely cognizant form that lay before him. His hands immediately tightened on his twin swords, and, without hesitation, he charged forwards, blades already swinging forwards to meet the skin of her neck and remove her life.

He didn't hesitate, even when he saw the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

There were no regrets. He _couldn't_ regret, otherwise he would break. He had to keep on going forward, uncaring of the past, unaware of loss and gain, or he would become the very man that he had sworn to never become, long ago on that hill of swords.

His eyes snapped back open, revitalized, and his blades continued their deadly paths that crossed at the junction of the Fallen's neck.

A sharp, enraged cry pierced the still air.

"BASTARD!"

Sudden movement caught his eye, and he quickly snapped back Kanshou into a guard position as a rogue spear flitted from the side, aimed his exposed torso.

Five more strikes were caught in his defense in quick succession, and on the sixth, his adversary locked blades with him, challenging him to a game of strength.

Long blue hair filled his vision, and his eyes met the fierce gaze of the other Fallen. Two spears were clasped tightly in either hand, their ornate blades held in equilibrium with his own twin swords.

A dual-wielder of spears? His eyes narrowed, and almost immediately Diarmuid Ua Duibhne immediately came to mind, a near doppelganger of _his_ Lancer that held two spears, one a familiar, if less potent crimson, and the other a shorter, brilliant gold.

But the woman held two identical weapons, the same in every respect, that pushed aggressively against his own, and the image from his world disappeared, replaced by a mere mimicry of the great human hero.

His eyes absentmindedly scanned the weapons that were locked against his, and slowly, he let a grim smile form on his face.

Mistress of the Wind?

He had never minded a challenge.

"Run..." he heard the cracked whisper of the heavily injured blonde Fallen curl into his ear. "Please run Kalawarner. You don't stand a chance."

"Not with you still here, Mittelt. I'll stay with you until the very end." the one in front of him said, resigned yet determined. "Besides, they didn't call me the Mistress of the Wind for no reason."

Brave.

He could respect that.

Ever so slightly, he tipped his head to his foe, acknowledging her valiance. It wasn't often he fought others with such loyalty between comrades, but when he did, at least some respect could be shown to them. They deserved it, fighting against someone who had long ago transcended the bounds of humanity, and now walked amongst the gods of legend.

He wasn't surprised, however, when she didn't return the gesture.

A mighty shove pushed him backwards from the heavily injured blonde, and, not given a moment's respite, a whirlwind of furious strikes fell upon him, each accentuated by the enraged battle cries of the woman in front of him.

Effortlessly, he blocked the blows, each strike caught in the very openings he had left exposed. The familiar vibration of blade meeting blade rung through his hand, and once more, he found himself in the heat of battle.

He pushed himself, with a slight Prana Burst, beneath her guard, coming up from behind and slashing at her exposed back. He could briefly see her eyes widen, before, panicked, she rolled away, the edges of his falling swords coming inches away from piercing the flesh of her back.

When he met her eyes again, they were now warier, and cautious, flicking from his blades to his eyes and back again.

He smiled grimly.

She had good reason to be cautious.

A release of Prana from his legs shot him forward once more, and their blades clashed brutally, the sound of screeching metal filling up the room. Both of their strikes were turned away as they met strong resistance, before they recovered and clashed again merely moments later.

As he fought, he noted that their movements had become faster and faster, and despite his liberal, if not full, application of Reinforcement to his limbs, the Fallen was keeping up with him easily.

Each of his blows was met with equal strength. Every strike he threw was parried and countered in under the blink of an eye. Even the subtle shifts in his guard attracted instantaneous exploitations of its holes, although such openings were of his own intention.

Yet, strangely, he found himself disappointed.

Each of Lancer's blows, during his brief engagement with him, battered him as if he were a leaf in the midst of a mighty gale. Each of his swings created massive waves of air that could warp his guard with ease. Every thrust had come dangerously close to his heart as he had struggled to deflect it with heavily Reinforced limbs.

The Fallen's attacks, however, were the complete opposite. Her blows were merely taps to his blades, easily driven by the brief tensing of his Reinforced muscles. Her swings whistled through the air, creating a pathetic copy of the torrents of forceful air Lancer had, despite her moniker. Her thrusts were sent scattering askew, as if they were merely the pokes from the particularly flirtatious girls at Clock Tower.

Granted, she was skilled. The movements of her spears were always aimed at the most vulnerable spots of the body, and her footwork was efficient, with little body movement wasted. Each of her strikes flitted in and out of sight within a second, before reappearing moments later to attack him at another angle.

But in the end, her vaunted skill was simply not enough to even match, let alone eclipse, his own.

With a sharp snap of his wrist, he hooked Bakuya past the Fallen's open guard, opening a thin, yet deep, wound that extended across her arm.

She let out a pained yell, and, mercilessly, he pressed his advantage. Defense suddenly morphed into a blistering offense, each blow a mighty sledgehammer that slammed against his opponent's guard.

A swing from Kanshou met weakened resistance, before said force suddenly gave way. A high-pitched sound rung loudly, and, before him, he could see one of his enemy's spears scatter into shards of yellow light that vanished moments later.

He pushed forward, his blades flashing as if they were each a single lighting strike, flashing in an relentless series, a furious blur of attacks that no warrior could ever hope to match.

The Fallen tried desperately to defend herself, weaving through his strikes without grace nor fluidity, her remaining spear no longer extended in an offensive manner but rather brought close in to deflect would-be death wounds.

Yet it was still not enough.

Both of his swords began scoring strikes, slowly at first, and then more and more, as if floodgates had been opened. Blows rained down unforgivingly on the Fallen's collapsing defense, carving deeper and deeper wounds on her limbs and torso. Blood flowed like wine at at a decadent Roman feast, pouring down the Fallen's formerly white skin and staining it a coagulated, dark red.

Slowly, she was overwhelmed under the unstoppable torrent of strikes, each parry growing weaker, every dodge slower, before her defense collapsed entirely.

The sound of shattering glass suddenly filled the room as Bakuya wrenched the final light spear out of the Fallen's hands, shattering the weapon into thousands of motes of light that dissipated almost longingly into the cool air.

Prana flashed through his hands and into the grips of his weapons, Reinforcing them further to their maximum capacity. Their edges become impossibly sharp, rivaling that of Durandal itself in their keenness, the cores so strong that they could not be bent by even the greatest of forces, the hilts so balanced that no imperfection could be detected.

Cathartically, he pressed forward, gathering silent momentum for the final finishing blow.

She could only stare at him with horrified eyes, mouth ajar in a broken shriek, as his blades sliced through air and into her lower body, severing both muscle and nerve endings that controlled lower body movement. A sickening _snap_ was heard as Kanshou stabbed messily through her spinal cord, pieces of vertebrae erupting from her back, scattering through the air like dominoes upon a gambling table.

He was not finished.

Brutally, he retracted his blades, bringing his Reinforced leg up for a massive kick that sent her flying across the across the length of the church. A shower of gore erupted from the abrupt removal, spraying him in the crimson elixir. The sickening crunch of bone as it shattered on the stone surface rose dully through the still air, but there was no scream. Her head lay eerily limp, contorted and broken, body awkwardly folded over itself.

A soft, yet contorted, cough escaped the confines of the half-dead Fallen's mouth, spilling blood and yellow mucus onto the floor, her gruesomely twisted form oozing all matters of bodily fluid onto the floor.

Blood and flesh. He could only laugh at the irony of such a scene occurring in a church.

According to the Christian faith, Jesus had died for man's sins. Every Sunday, many Christians, including the Catholic Church, honored and remembered his sacrifice through the Holy Communion, the Eucharist, consuming bread and sipping wine as so to represent the flesh and blood of Christ.

He had never been particularly religious - after all, many of his actions and practices were considered sacrilegious to most if not all religious doctrine - but he couldn't help wonder if God himself was pleased with the brutal sacrifice of blood and flesh upon the altar.

Had he been a bloodthirsty God, he certainly would have. The essence of life that was spilled on the floor soaked into the ancient stone as if it were being devoured by the crevices. Pieces of flesh lay randomly about the floor, as if they were scraps of food that had spilled from the confines of a voracious mouth. With such a magnificent feast for the wicked gods, how could they not be satisfied?

But he was still not yet finished, and the Red Communion continued, much to the cruel gods' delight.

_Clack._

_Clack.  
_

_Clack._

Burnished steel rung like church bells through the silence as he slowly walked forwards, crimson liquid slowly dripping off the edges of his blades, tracing a bloody path behind him.

When he approached her, she lifted her head, barely conscious. A dazed, dreamy expression graced her bloodied face, seemingly peaceful, a tranquil, faintly pleased smile on her face.

It was illusion, he knew. An attempt of the mind to convince her that all was not lost, that the reality she was in was a merely a nightmare, and that she was truly somewhere else.

But did she not understand?

All dreams disappeared eventually, when the dreamer awakened.

Therefore, it was inevitable that he would stand in her way.

For he was the destroyer of such dreams, the insurmountable final obstacle as the breaker of imagination itself.

How could he not? He was the king of illusions themselves, and he possessed the one that surpassed all others in both sheer strength and scope.

He stopped in front of her, staring into her vacant eyes.

"Are you afraid?" he asked softly.

Her eyes immediately turned cognizant, her desperately conjured facade of peace collapsing all around her. An animalistic, guttural plea ripped from the Fallen's raw throat, a desperate cry for clemency and mercy.

He descended upon her like hawk would its prey, his twin blades embedding themselves deep into the small gaps between her ribs, squelching gruesomely as they penetrated skin, flesh, and organ alike.

She stopped screaming.

When he pulled them back out, they were coated with a thin layer of blood, the shining liquid faintly reflecting the fading light.

A single, disdainful flick of his swords, and they were clean once more, a fountain of red liquid erupting from the edges of each blade and drenching the ground crimson, only for it to be devoured once more by the all-consuming cracks in the stone.

Slowly, he turned around, boring his eyes straight into the last Fallen that floated above him, a horrified, stricken expression twisting her inhumanly beautiful features.

Fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear lay in her eyes.

It was an expression he had seen all to many times, in situations all too similar to this one. The face of a person who had seen their world shatter about them, their illusive utopias crumbling into nothing but dust and the bitter taste of broken dreams.

"What...what are you?"

An amused smirk crossed his face as the dank irony fell upon him once more, and for a moment, he couldn't help but wonder if this what Archer felt.

Was he no longer even called human, by the very thing that had labeled him as such not five minutes before?

"What do you think I am?"

A shower of spears fell upon him, each sent with increasing desperation as he strolled through the storm of projectiles, deflecting and dodging each with almost casual menace. The cold mask of impassivity and duty enclosed his face, and yet again, he no longer was the man that saved billions single-handedly, but the villain that slew thousands in cold blood.

But in the end, that was his legacy on the world that he had left behind. The legacy of the Wrought Iron Magus, the Second Magus Killer.

As he progressed, he noticed she was shaking, yet maintained that facade of courage, deluding herself that she could still win.

What was the point?

Both he and she knew that there could, and would, only be one end to this.

With a massive yell, she charged forward, spear aimed straight at his chest.

Specifically, at his heart.

If it had connected, it would have been a mortal blow, severing his aorta instantly and causing nearly instant death, his blood flooding from the artery and into his body, depriving him of the life-giving fluid. That was what Lancer had done to him, back in the Fifth War, when he was far more naive and far less experienced. It was perhaps his first true experience with the dark aspects of Magecraft, and the catalyst for nearly fatal clash in ideals and beliefs that followed.

Such a blow had a personal, almost intimate, connection with him.

And as such, he was not about to let it happen ever again.

Kanshou twisted. Bakuya fell.

A hideous scream of pain erupted from her mouth. He felt the light spray of blood on his face, and, absently, he stared at the black blade that was buried deep in the Fallen's back.

Her spear shattered in a thousand motes of light, dissipating in the cool air around them.

With a powerful kick, he sent her flying backwards as if she were a rag-doll. An odd, sickening squelching noise dug itself into his ear as Bakuya was forcefully wrenched from Raynare's back, chunks of gore flying into the air and erupting into a shower of blood.

Agonized cries rung throughout the empty church, grating harshly against his ears.

Calmly, he walked forward.

"Trace, on."

A new weapon appeared in his hands. A sword with a hilt of bronze, its cross-guard shaped like the wings of a bird, and a gleaming, menacing blade tapering into a razor point.

He was no longer the only wielder. The spirit of the sword, its first and most famous user, pressed lightly against his consciousness, asking for his permission for entrance. Silently, he yielded, and the righteous anger of Justice herself began to run like fire through his veins.

Raynare's hand lifted, trembling, desperately, towards the cross that loomed above her, and she brokenly whispered phrases in Latin, the harsh archaic syllables grating past his ears. Faintly, far above, he could see a green aura form around the limp body of the priestess, a soft, yet pained groan, escaping from her mouth. A sensation not unlike that of Avalon or the Caduceus of Hermes washed over him, yet it felt corrupted and unrighteous, as if it were grasped by an unworthy hand.

His eyes narrowed.

A steel boot crashed heavily into the Fallen's ribs, eliciting another screech of pain as Raynare was forcibly lifted up through the air and sent crashing back down onto the cold stone floor, the sickly crunch of bone reaching his Reinforced ears. The uncomfortable feeling of corruption dissipated, and with a relieved moan, the girl nailed to the cross far above slumped backwards, thankfully unconscious.

Slowly, he walked forward, his footsteps emanating throughout the tomb-like church, ringing almost brazenly off the walls and resonating throughout the tall spires.

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" she screamed, hands hovering over her face in a futile attempt to convince herself otherwise of her impending fate. "NO! STOP! SOMEBODY! ANYBODY! SAVE ME!"

Adrasteia, it was known as by the Greeks.

The sword of Nemesis, the goddess of Vengeance who mercilessly executed all those who had wronged others, glinted faintly in the dying light.

There was nowhere one could hide. There was nowhere one could run. There was nowhere one could escape, for Justice never failed to find its targets with unerring accuracy.

Did the beings of this world not understand this?

What goes around, comes around, as went the popular saying.

Similarly, it didn't matter how long it took. It didn't matter how evil the sin. It didn't matter how much one prayed.

Justice would _always_ be delivered.

The blade rose.

"I have judged your sins, and they are many," he said, his voice emotionless and empty, although he could feel the slight undertone of pity that slipped out beneath it.

Mercilessly, he crushed the feeling. He was no longer a human, but a blade. And the only justice he knew was by the keen edge of his swords.

Yet as he walked towards her, he couldn't help but feel the pity well up again within. Pity for the lost soul who had been merely been manipulated, a pawn that foolishly pretended to be a Queen.

For a moment he hesitated, staring at her desperate, terrified eyes, and wondered if she was capable of redemption. Wondered what Saber would do in his position.

Wondered what _he _would do in his position.

He ground out his next words words with a definitive finality. "And this..."

The pause seemed timeless, centuries of past, present, and future spanning in a mere second.

"This is your penance."

Raynare screamed.

The blade fell.

And then there was only silence.

* * *

**AN: Heavy inspiration from Deprived. Woot woot.**

**Check out the Jason's X-Ray from Mortal Kombat X, with that massive machete snapping through the back curves of the ribs, and you'll see basically what happened to happened to Kalawarner when she got stabbed.**

**I ripped parts of Shirou's thoughts from Fate Zero. I can't help it. It's literally Gilgamesh's story, condensed into a few sentences, and its both brilliant and sad. Not to mention some vague references to Toaru. Breaker of Imagination XD**

**Adrasteia does not really exist as a sword. It is merely another name for Nemesis, who is the Greek primordial goddess of vengeance, and also the name of the nymph that nursed a baby Zeus. Ignore the nymph, for this story's sake.**

**Shirou is not going to be simply an owner of swords, like Gilgamesh. He is also the master of many, if not all, of them. This is to once again close the gap between power levels in Nasuverse and DxD. To be honest, Shirou is already pretty powerful in this fic. I mean, imagine the sheer destruction that a broken Caladbolg or Excalibur could do. With Alaya's help, he certainly has enough Prana to do so.**

**Furthermore, powering up Shirou is something that really hasn't been done before in this genre. People are so afraid of having an overpowered character that they immediately shy away from making their character damn respectable. Just because it isn't canon doesn't mean that you shouldn't write it guys! Of course, I'll make sure Shirou isn't curbstomping everybody, but really. If Shirou faced off against freakin' Gilgamesh, although admittedly the latter was really, really, really not trying, most Fallen Angels would be a piece of cake.**

**Expect some non-canon stuff. And even more Shirou "special powers."**

**Explaining Wrath, Justice, etc: Basically swords that were built for a certain purpose or in a certain way coagulate with swords who were also built for a similar purpose or in a similar way to form a sentient beast whose entire mentality is centered around that certain purpose. It has been simplified down to base emotions.**

**Also, there _will_ be romance in my story. Lots of sordid romantic tension too. Maybe a love triangle or two thrown in. Hmmm...**

**Of course, Shirou and Saber is still the OTP in this story, with Shirou and Rin a close second.**

**Finally, no harem. No harem for anyone, in fact. Sorry!**

**That's not saying I don't enjoy a good harem story now and then. Check out A New ROAD of Misfortune by Itherael. It's A Certain Magical Index fic with a well-written Touma with a somewhat harem, and in my opinion, needs a lot more love than it's getting. Path of the King by Neoalfa also is a harem fic, although significant romantic development has yet to appear.**

**Finally, a pleasant anon reviewer said, and I quote: "**Shirou committing battery on children peeping of all things, is unbelievable and suspension breaking, laughter-inducing even.**"**

**This actually makes me somewhat angry. Peeping is not something that should be taken lightly under any circumstances. Its a violation of privacy, for one, and secondly, I really doubt it makes a teenage girl feel comfortable to have their naked bodies ogled at by other people without consent. Sexual assault is actually a pretty serious problem in a lot of places. Though the rape statistics appear to be low in Japan (1.2/100K people), the reason why they are so low is that people _don't actually report sexual assault_. Because they're afraid of the humiliation that will follow, thanks to Japan's rather structured society that is really ostracizing at times -_- Citation below.**

**Dussich, J. P. J. "Decisions Not to Report Sexual Assault: A Comparative Study among Women Living in Japan Who Are Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and English-Speaking." International Journal of Offender Therapy and Comparative Criminology (2001): 278-301. Print. **

**So please if you want to flame, don't make yourself seem like a male chauvinist. Sexual crimes are a serious problem, and _anything _that may constitute a sexual crime will be treated as such in this fic.**

**Yeah, I'm making this really serious XP. Your second point though, anonymous viewer, that the fact that my attempt at sucking a lot of the humor out is really funny and a dumb idea, is actually pretty valid. Making a fandom from hilarious to downright serious as heck is kinda strange, but heh! Someone's gotta be that one guy :P**

**This is mature for a reason guys! Its _because_ the rating is M that I expect that audiences come here with an adult, mature perspective on multiple topics. Please don't make middle-school worthy or 1800s-era comments about how men have a right to peek on women, cause really guys, we don't. Either that, or I have a really messed up view on courting and romance.**

**I'll try and make sure that this won't turn GRIMDERP, so I won't erase everything funny, but guys, its a serious fic! I want to actively have a purpose and teach a lesson with this story.**

**That's all for now! Thanks for reading, and I appreciate all your support. Review, review, review. I really want to actively improve my writing.**


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